


Recognise Me

by futureboy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gang World, Dancing, F/NB, Fake AH Crew, First Kiss, First Meetings, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Guns, Heist, Ice Skating, Nonbinary Character, Origin Story, Other, Rescue, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: “Do you ever have one of those moments where you’re laying in your room, and you’re looking up at the ceiling, and you don’t have anything planned for the next day, and you think--”“--let’s do something crazy?” Fiona finishes.Dance troupe member Fiona Nova’s only passing through Los Santos, and a chaotic stranger keeps crossing her path.[Fiondsay, FAHC Fiona origin story. Entirely self-indulgent because I love Fifi more than life. FEB 21 - now updated with Lindsay and Rimmy Tim's pronouns!]
Relationships: Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Fiona Nova
Comments: 43
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1 - Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]
> 
> FEB 21 - now updated with Lindsay and Rimmy Tim's pronouns!
> 
> Title from ‘Notorious’ by The Saturdays. Because why not?  
> [British spelling, because The Saturdays are British.]

_I'm an outlaw_ _  
_ _I'm the big boss_ _  
_ _I'm a gangster_ _  
_ _On the dance floor_

Notorious, The Saturdays

* * *

**(Tuesday)**

Fiona’s not supposed to be here.

She’s just passing through, for fuck’s sake. Days where her back aches, nights where her feet hurt and her heart thrums, starlight and spotlights in her eyes. The splinters in her knees from a rickety stage. The occasional television appearance.

Longing for the next thing coming her way.

“It’s pretty here, doncha think?” she asks her team.

They’re not like her. No dream in their heads or sparks in their wooden insides.

“Los Santos?” snorts Harri. “I’d rather spend a whole _year_ touring Liberty City than another minute in this dirthole.”

Like… What do you even _say_ to that? Yikes.

Fiona really tries her best to get along with the others, but the girls are bitter and the guys are downright assholes (and there’s one new member of the team called Sike who doesn’t speak to anyone at all). So she can be civil, but she’s really not in the business of putting herself out for others.

She guesses entertainment gigs have always kinda been like that.

Fiona’s a dancer. That’s the short of it. Fuck, she’s more than a dancer, she’s a goddamn _performer_ and she’s severely underrated, but it definitely means she’s doing her job well if no-one notices her as being set apart from the group. The only reason to get singled out by the director is because you’re being a timeless little asshole, and she doesn’t make a habit of being out of step with the others.

Except after dark.

“Sorry,” she mutters, pushing past someone in the lobby. Her puffy coat makes a _swish-_ y noise as she sweeps out onto the street, and she pulls her beanie further down onto her eyes.

(Fiona hates saying ‘sorry’, but it’s useful for keeping the heat off.)

It’s not far to her destination - just a way to let go, that’s all. Red and yellow lights drizzle through the night sky like silly string. It’s fucking _cute_ , man.

Curfews are for losers, and what the rest of the squad don’t know won’t hurt them.

The only feeling better than lacing up your skates is when you first slide out onto the ice, Fiona thinks. She’s firmly of the opinion that walking is the suckers’ way of moving around, and that if the whole world was frozen then she’d be the first (and best) one out there.

So Los Santos has a beautiful rink. And the others were never gonna know about it.

Ten thirty in a dark and damp part of town, the grime tangible against the concrete, and the gorgeous neon yellows and pinks were dancing across the cloudy glass of the arena. The chill in the air makes her feel alive; the echoing clicks of the warehouse make her _revel_ in it.

See, some people would rather go to the flapper era jewelry exhibit at Los Santos Museum. And when those people were the squad she was crammed into a tour bus with 24/7… Well, put it this way, that kind of thing always felt more like _work_ than leisure. It’s a big fat _nahhh, son_ , is what it is.

It’s easier for her to skate backwards than it is forwards, so she kicks out her heel and lets her other ankle decide the winding course.

She’s never had skating lessons, but it comes naturally, from a knowledge in her soles that she can’t possibly know the origin of. It’s like being on a motorbike. She _leans_ into the movements. The skates are part of Fiona, and Fiona’s a part of the skates... She _feels_ the motion...

There’s a thud from across the room.

“Oof,” says a figure, sprawled out in a tangle on the ice.

Fiona balks.

She’s not alone after all, apparently - what an unpleasant surprise. “Holy shit,” she calls, “are you okay?!”

“Yeah, fine!” the figure replies, through mittens cupped around their mouth. The skates skitter uselessly against the surface of the rink, and they struggle to stand: “let me just-- WHOOPS!”

They wobble, heading for a Really Big Slip.

Fiona slides right on over and catches them.

It’s effortless. She’s been at the bottom of a pyramid, she’s been clear across a room when someone’s been tossed her way - Fiona _knows_ how to do this.

“Jeez, calm down for a start,” she says, smoothing the arms of the skater’s coat down, “you’re freaking out and making it _worse_. If you don’t know how to fall without hurting yourself, you’re gonna… Well, _hurt yourself_. Stop throwing your legs in every direction and let your heels control your stance, not your toes.”

When the skater finally regains control of their limbs, they clutch at Fiona’s elbows, curling sweetly clinging hands into the curve of her arms. “Shit,” they grin, “I’m doing a great job of being undercover right now, right?”

They puff their hair out their face and beam. It’s a bright red, _too_ red to be natural, and they wear it well. This motherfucker’s far too cheerful for someone who just bruised everything in ass range, though.

“…Undercover?” Fiona asks.

“Yeah,” they say, like it’s obvious, “I’m actually a master ice skater. One of the best in the biz. I just can’t let anyone know because I’ll get mobbed, so I’m pretending that I suck dog shit at it to fend off any attention. Y’know?”

Fiona tips back her head and cackles.

The skater continues to smile. They're completely unfazed.

“You’re fucking crazy,” drawls Fiona, starting to drag them backwards, still clutching their arms, “you’re fuckin’ _craaaazy_! Who goes on the ice _by themselves_ at night if they suck dog shit at skating? C’mere, I’ll show you the ropes.”

“You’re one to talk. You were here alone, too.”

Fiona lets them both drift over to the side, and the two of them bump gently against the plastic. “Yeah, but I’m just blowing off some steeeeam,” she saying, pulling out the ‘ee’ sound as far as it’ll go. “I do this in every town I crash through.”

 _“Town,”_ says the skater derisively.

“City, then. Whatever.”

Fiona and the skater are still hanging onto each other, she realizes with an alarming jolt, and she drops their arms.

The skater teeters. They don't slip, though, so it seems to be an improvement.

“…I’m Fiona.”

“Lindsay,” says Lindsay. The smile appears to be their default expression, and it’s kind of hilarious to think of this disaster-impact human, floating through life with a perfectly content look on their face at all times, as though they don't fucking announce their existence with a loud misadventure.

“You ever skated lemons?” Fiona asks.

Lindsay raises an eyebrow. “You mean, like, hardcore gay?” they ask, and Fiona snorts unattractively.

“Uh, _no_ ,” she corrects, and puts her back to the rink wall to stick out her ankles properly. “It’s a formation for your feet. And basically the only advice I know, so you… You better listen close.”

She twists her feet in and out:

“You pretend you’re making the outline of lemons,” she explains. “Just… lil’ fuckin’ lemons, Lindsay. They’ll get you through. Get you through some tough times. Lean into it.”

Lindsay looks down, and follows the sparkle of the blades over the ice. “Lean… Got it. I _like_ that advice.”

Show them, don’t tell them, right? It’s something along those lines. Fiona’s skates scratch as they trace out the shapes, and after a couple seconds, she kicks off the side of the rink, wiggling her knees in and out to make lemon shapes while traveling.

“See?” she says, and spreads her arms wide.

“I think so. Like this?”

Lindsay tries to copy. They brace their arms over the shelf of the rink like Fiona had done, and make some wobbly-looking ovals in place.

“No, hang on,” Fiona says, sliding back over to them, and taking them by the forearms again. “Look, you need to come back in afterwards, I’ll help you. Check this out--”

Lindsay glances up dangerously. “Wait, wait _wait_ ,” they interrupt. “You’re not doing the nipple. You forgot it.”

Whatever Fiona had thought they were going to say - well, it hadn’t been _that_. “Oh?” she snorts. “I forgot the nipple? I forgot the lemon nipple? Alright, I’ll fuckin’... add it in, it’s _your_ difficulty setting, Lindsay--”

“Yep,” Lindsay agrees. “Listen, if I’m gonna do lemons, I’m gonna do them _right_. Nipple or bust, baby.”

They buckle slightly on what looks more like a grapefruit, and tighten their grip on Fiona’s arms.

“Not to be, like, rude, or anything,” Fiona starts, “but why are you here? Like, why did you come? You’re clearly not a regular.”

Lindsay laughs in the general direction of their own knees. “Maybe I’m a shitty regular,” they reason, but then they backtrack just as rapidly. “I mean-- nahh, I’m not. But I’d like to be. I don’t know, I kinda just-- wanted to? Do you ever have one of those moments where you’re laying in your room, and you’re looking up at the ceiling, and you don’t have anything planned for the next day, and you think--”

 _“--let’s do something crazy?”_ Fiona finishes.

Lindsay stops skating lemons.

“Yeah,” they say.

“All the time,” Fiona agrees. “How come the ice rink, though?”

“Dunno. Saw a thing online. It was open late. Why not?”

“Depends on how good the room you’re laying in is, I guess,” says Fiona. 

The two of them spin in a controlled circle; Lindsay grins as Fiona leans them into it, barely even thinking about the automatic movements. “Why,” they say, “what's yours like?” 

Fiona flushes. It's a combination of pleased, overt flirting, and oncoming embarrassment. “...I don’t have a room,” she confesses, and waits for Lindsay to drop their hold. 

“You don’t?”

“No,” she explains, “I’m, uh… Just passing through. I’m part of a dance troupe, we’re in town at the moment--”

“City,” Lindsay corrects.

They haven't let go. They’re both so close together that whenever Lindsay turns their head, Fiona can smell flowery laundry powder and sweet shampoo.

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “City… Whatever.”

“So you gotta share? That sucks _major_ ass. You should demand star treatment.”

Fiona tips her chin up in dismissal. “Pffft, I _wish_. Nah, I gotta share with eight other people. It kinda sucks, 'cos you can only get alone time when everyone’s in rehearsal. But then _I’m_ in rehearsal, too, so it defeats the whole point. Shut-eye’s too fucking hard when Harri snores, y’know?”

“Yeah, fuck Harri,” Lindsay says emphatically, “you demand that penthouse treatment, Fiona, you _deserve_ it.”

“Ehhh, one day. I’ll have you know that I’ve got a pretty swanky twin mattress in the meantime.”

Lindsay laughs at a waggle of the eyebrows which Fiona had considered to be _extremely_ risky, so it's a good job she took that chance. God, they're radiant. They've just got easy contentedness rolling from every single action.

(Even the clumsy ones.)

“How long are you in town for?” Lindsay asks.

“Until Sunday,” Fiona says, “that’s the morning after the big show on Saturday night, so I probably won’t be around. We leave pretty early.”

“Shame. Fuckin’ shame,” says Lindsay.

Fiona kicks out in a small motion that keeps them spinning.

“I guess,” she says. “If you like Los Santos, that is. I don’t feel like I’ll be here long enough to start liking it for what it is, though.”

“So take a look around while you’re here,” says Lindsay, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to explore a city over half a week.

“Whaaat?”

“See the sights. More than just a rink in every city,” they point out. “Why not the boardwalk at Vespucci Beach? Or Pleasure Pier, that’s a fucked up time if you wanna see all kinds of weirdos. Hell, there’s this place called the Crystal Museum-- it has an exhibit on nineteenth century jewelry right now, there’s diamonds and shit on display there.”

“Got a show that day,” Fiona says, curling her lip. “I'm actually on evenings Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and then I got the Big Show on Saturday. I don't think the museum is gonna be open after ten.”

“Ah,” says Lindsay. “No, probably not, I guess.”

“Shame,” says Fiona.

Lindsay shakes their head. “ _Fuckin’_ shame.”

They skate together a little more after that - Lindsay bangs their hip twice, but gets up again and again like a goddamned champ - and Fiona wonders what it would be like to do this every day.

She can’t spare it any thought. Too dangerous. So after an hour, or two, or three, because she keeps making excuses to herself not to leave, Fiona finally traipses back the way she came, ready to sneak into her room for rehearsals tomorrow. She’s probably gonna think about this pleasant encounter for the rest of her life. She doesn’t get Lindsay’s number. She doesn’t make any plans with them. She doesn’t even learn their last name.

Because she _can’t_. Not when she’s not going to be staying.


	2. Chapter 2 - Wednesday

**(Wednesday)**

Fiona never oversteps. Not in view, anyway - that’s a good way to get in trouble, so it’s important to be well-practiced and precise when the time comes. She hates being on tour, because she can never rehearse from the comfort of her own space.

Not that she’s ever had much of that anyway, but when they’re stationary, or working just from Liberty City, there’s less people around. More time for her to kick and twist and generally throw her body around a room. Less time spent asking people to get the hell outta the way.

Other dancers overstepping, though… She can’t control _that_.

Fiona can beat down a bitch when they trip her, though.

“What the _fuck_ , Meaghan?!” she says, face scrunched up with pain, sprawled over the dance floor heavily. The backing track is still thumping over the speakers, but the dancers are out of time, staring where the collision occurred roughly five seconds ago.

“We’re supposed to be spaced apart by two feet, _Fiona_ ,” Meaghan retorts, ribs heaving with exertion. “Get in formation--”

She hauls herself to her feet. “I _was_ in formation,” Fiona explodes, “it was Harri way over and you know it! Why don’t you mind your fuckin’ jazz squares and get out of my face--”

“You clumsy _bitch!_ I was fine!” Harri retorts. “You’re the one who can’t--”

**_“SHUT UP!!”_ **

The music cuts out.

Fiona bites her tongue.

The dance troupe freezes.

Oooooh, fuck.

 _“Girls!!”_ screeches the troupe boss. (Fiona notices that the new dancer scowls at that, but it’s not really enough information to work with. She’ll keep an eye out.) “We’re breaking early for lunch, and when we’re back, I want all of you to be a little less fuckwitted and a little better at your _goddamned jobs!_ Is that clear?!”

Yes, Mister Wells.

“Not you, Nova! Get your sorry ass over here.”

Aw, fuck.

Meaghan shoulder checks her - “who’s in who’s space _now?”_ \- and god, it takes everything Fiona’s got not to fucking destroy her in front of the guy who keeps her employed. Harri sneers at her when she walks by, and Fiona jumps off the edge of the stage to avoid sending her to Mount Zonah Medical Center.

Kellyn Wells is tremendously wealthy and invested in the arts - particularly dance and performance, in which he maintains a variety of contracts across the country, and manages his own elite dance team. They get deployed to perform for all sorts of musical stars and major sports halftime shows; if you’re managed by Wells, you’re hot shit.

He’s short and blond and smug and smackable. He’s a massive dick of the highest degree. He graduated, Fiona likes to think, from FKU, and probably majored in Cockology, with a minor in Asshole Studies.

He’s right in front of her, and Fiona can’t look at him.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks. His voice is low and level, which is almost worse than his yelling.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“Are you threatening my dancers, Nova? Are you intending to damage my merchandise?”

Fiona doesn’t make eye contact.

“…No.”

“That’s the correct answer,” he confirms. 

Fiona says nothing.

Kellyn Wells is a giant in the industry. That much is obvious. It’s a shame that he found Fiona at such a shitty time in her life, because she could _really_ do without being indebted to him.

“Don’t forget what you owe me, Nova,” he says, setting his voice into a deep, scratchy, dangerous tone. “I want the performance of a lifetime from you on Saturday. Costume jewelry and all. Do you hear me?”

It’s a good job Fiona knows how to fall properly, from a childhood love of the ice and a lot of prior practice. Her elbow stings, but the trip-up could have been worse.

“Do you _understand_ , Nova?”

Fiona tries not to huff.

“ _Yes_ , Mister Wells,” she says.

He’s still scowling, deep lines etching into the space between his eyebrows, but ultimately he seems satisfied. “Go to lunch,” he says, dismissing her with two fingers flapping towards the exit.

It takes everything she’s got not to spit in his _extremely_ spittable-upon face.

When she gets back to the dorm, the other dancers have mostly left for the cafeteria - it’s only a girl in the corner, gathering her purse together to leave, and the new dancer, who is pulling on some tennis shoes. Newbie’s halfway through tying the laces on one side, frozen and transfixed on the TV in their room.

_“--string of burglaries in privately owned properties are suspected to be linked to gang activity. The latest robbery in the Vinewood area, in which three million dollars’ worth of international artwork was stolen two days’ ago, is suspected to be linked to the organized group the ‘Fake AH Crew’...”_

“Aw, Sike, not again,” Fiona says.

Sike jumps. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya,” she says, and flops on her own bed to yank off her dancing shoes. “Don’t worry, he went easy on me. Hopefully he won’t have a stick up his ass so bad after a bite to eat, right?”

Sike smirks, but doesn’t say anything. They’re a stocky dancer, with a _super_ short haircut close to the scalp, and - Fiona’s not gonna lie - a really weird interest in the legal system.

The TV is still barking about artwork thievery. 

“You really look at the crime rate in every place we pass through?” she asks dubiously. “ _Dude._ That ain’t right.”

Sike shrugs, as if to say, _just wanna know how good my chances are_. 

Which is fair. How can Fiona blame them for that? 

_“Los Santos residents are advised to check their security measures are up to date, and to secure any valuables that may be targeted by a professional criminal force…”_

* * *

Fiona is still seething by the end of the show that night, let alone rehearsal. She tries to channel her furious energy into her dancing - but honestly, it’s not effective at all, and she’s still worked up and pissed off.

So logically, she sneaks out again to head to the rink. The ice will cool her down; that method’s tried and tested, baby.

She hasn’t even stepped onto the surface when she spots Lindsay. They're staring fiercely at their toes, skating wobbly lemons, and Fiona’s heart _clenches_. So weird, how the sight of someone she’d only met once before has instantly made her feel ten times better.

“Lookin’ good, Red.”

“Fiona!” Lindsay grins, knees trembling the second they look up. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought you had a show tonight.”

Fiona skates backwards towards them, calves cycling fluidly through the motions. It’s soothing and simple to her, like gliding through a swimming pool. “I _did_ have a show,” she says, “and I’m achy and wired and pissed off, and I don’t wanna talk to anyone on my team. So I snuck out here again.”

“Pissed _awwwfff_ ,” Lindsay imitates. “ _Someone’s_ from Liberty City, huh.”

“I was,” Fiona says simply. “Once upon a time. Now I’m nowhere.”

To her surprise, Lindsay drops it. There’s a perpetually vacant cheerfulness to their expressions, but Fiona’s got a sneaking suspicion that behind that mask, there’s something shrewder than Lindsay lets on to others.

Interesting.

“How’re the lemon nipples?” Fiona asks instead.

“Pert,” says Lindsay.

_“Pert!”_

“Yeah. Real perky-looking. I’m even making it a couple feet before the urge to cling to the side of the rink kicks in again,” they say, their eyes twinkling as Fiona doubles over with the giggles. “That shit really helped, so thanks a bunch, dude.”

“Hey, no problem. Anything for the undercover master,” Fiona says.

“Yeah, speaking of,” says Lindsay…

Uh oh.

Fiona narrows her eyes with suspicion, and eventually says:

“…Are you a talent scout?”

Lindsay _pfffffts_. “What? No. I was thinking though, seeing as I’m undercover, I didn’t want to spend too long hanging around the same old haunts,” they grin. “I was thinking of blowing this joint and going on a tour of the city, and… Well, I know you love this place, but if you wanted to come along, you’d be welcome to.”

“A tour?” Fiona asks. She hadn’t really considered it - in her opinion, what’s the point of trying to rush through hotspots when she might not even be back to enjoy them properly? But then a tour with good company is… tempting, to say the least. “Did you wait here just to invite me on a _tour_?”

“Yeah,” says Lindsay, who doesn’t appear to be embarrassed by the admission at all.

“Oh, really?!” says Fiona. Her smile is taking over her whole face. “You gonna be my tour guide, Lindsay of Los Santos?”

“I would be _honored_ to, good Lady of Liberty City,” they reply grandly, offering their arm, and promptly loses their balance in a series of skidding skates sounds.

Maybe that should be Fiona’s job, huh. “C’mon, genius,” she says, offering _her_ arm instead - Lindsay clings gratefully - “let’s hit up the big city.”

* * *

It is exactly what they do.

Lindsay and Fiona head down streets with mixtures of old and new architecture, archways and skyscrapers and bricks and concrete. They window shop in weird little stores that shouldn’t still be open at this hour, but for some reason still _are_. They grab snacks from a suspicious looking ‘hole in the wall’ style store, which Fiona privately classifies as a ‘bodega that doubles as a front’, and which Lindsay publicly declares their ‘favorite place to drunkenly shoplift gum from’. 

“You’re crazy,” Fiona tells them, “I saw that cashier, he could snap you in half, dude.”

“What, Milton? Nahhh, he’s cool,” says Lindsay, _pshawww_ ing the very idea of being snapped. “I don’t even think it counts as shoplifting if he lets me take what I want.”

“Why would he let you do that?”

“I helped him out one time,” they reply.

Fiona quirks an eyebrow. “Really,” she says flatly, “you helped him out.”

“Sure did. I’ll have you know I’m a real community player.”

And to be honest - Fiona can kinda see how that would be true.

They find a busker playing old-timey jazz, and Lindsay twirls her to the beat as they pass by. The two of them stop by a glitzy little independent theater and take turns snapping pictures of each other, posing like the posters which adorn the outside of the building, of Golden Age leading ladies and strikingly beautiful classic cinema actresses.

“What about the top of the Wheel?”

“Y’know,” says Lindsay, “looking down always makes me feel a little ill, not gonna lie.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” they shrug, “it’s fine when you’re like, falling? I’ve parachuted some, and that’s okay, ‘cos the distance gets shorter _real_ fast. But being stationary turns my stomach, man, it’s gross… I’m not one for puking on the first date. I try and save it for at _least_ the third.”

Fiona laughs against the back of her fingers, and tries desperately not to flush pink. “Guess I’ll have to try and run into you some more, then,” she grins.

“You got a fetish or something? Fiona! Puking’s a dealbreaker, I’m serious--”

They stop by in yet another store where Lindsay seems close to the person behind the counter, and both pop the tabs on their sodas as they meander down the boulevard. It’s more residential the further in they go - this is real living, Fiona thinks to herself, the _real_ side of Los Santos, the side that struggles and fights and loses and scrambles for rent. The side that reminds her of the block she grew up on back home. And the best part is that Lindsay knows the streets _well_ , all these differently populated places that emanate their own energies. A bunch of kids are playing with an air rifle over the street, shooting empty cans and plastic bottles off a concrete wall, and all they do is wave genially at them. Fiona marvels at how no-one seems to fuck with Lindsay - even though they’re not exactly in the best part of town.

“What do you do?” Fiona asks them. “Like, what’s your job?”

“Oh, I’ve dabbled,” says Lindsay, “I was a tour guide for a while, then I drove people around… Personal shopper… Now I guess my official title is ‘project manager’. I just get people where they need to be.”

Hmm. Fiona frowns:

“Where does parachuting come into that?”

And Lindsay, after a second, grins a big grin at her.

“The parachuting? Oh,” they say, “why, that’s just for _fun_ , Fiona.”

Makes sense that if you lived in Los Santos, you’d make time for fun, she guesses.

They wander through the residential blocks further, where the sidewalks are dusty and edge into brown dirt more than concrete cover. It’s fenced out in tall six-foot sheets of plywood, and occasionally kids will scamper by in groups with sports equipment, giving Lindsay and Fiona a wide berth. The sky is a nasty, beautiful artificial burn, neon purple and orange.

“Shame you haven’t got time for the museum,” Lindsay says, kicking up dust with their heels.

It’s just a sentence.

But it still makes her stomach swoop. “Yeah,” says Fiona, after maybe just a second too long, “I, uh, I used to go all the time back home. They’ve got this ice skating museum there. When I was a kid it got all smashed up ‘cos of gang stuff, but my mom took me to the grand reopening when they repaired it. We skated all fucking _day_.”

“Damn,” Lindsay says. “I heard about some of the Liberty City gangs, they can be hardcore.”

“It’s the loners you gotta watch out for,” says Fiona, “people out there, weaponizing ‘not having friends’, it’s crazy. Here, it’s like… It’s like crime is a field trip, like a day out for you and your buddies or some shit, and I don’t get that at _all_.”

Lindsay thinks this over. A rectangular car, suspension low and engine growling, crawls past them with shining lights, but they don’t pay any attention to it. “Yeah,” they say, chewing their lip, “the lone wolf stuff is pretty prominent over there, huh? You got…. Uh, Rosetta? That one who’d target landlords and tax evaders and stuff, I remember hearing about that. Zizi the jewelry thief, Oxsmith the Locksmith, that guy who’d hijack news broadcasts...”

Fiona blanches.

“You know a _lot_ about Liberty City,” she says eventually. The knowledge has honestly taken her by surprise.

“It’s hard not to when it makes the news so often,” Lindsay shrugs, like it’s nothing of note. “I guess gang stuff was common where you’re from, huh.”

“Oh, yeah, every other day there was something else. Big, powerful people, y’know? I always thought, like, surely there’s better stuff you can be doing with your time…”

“Boredom’s a powerful motivator,” Lindsay says gravely. It’s the kind of tone where Fiona’s not sure if they're just really good at joking or not.

“I hate being bored. Always movin’,” Fiona says, matching her pitch exactly, and flexes her biceps for emphasis.

Lindsay’s mouth quirks up extremely subtly.

It feels like a win. So Fiona keeps going.

“Speaking of…” she bites, glossing clear mischief over each word, “I think I’d better be heading back. I have rehearsal tomorrow.”

“But the night’s still young!”

“It’s three in the morning,” Fiona points out.

“Yeah, that’s a toddler hour,” Lindsay grins, “that’s eighteen years before drinking age, dude.”

“You only drink after nine PM?”

Lindsay bursts out laughing, quiet and strong, and fixes her with a gleeful look.

“Okay,” they concede.

“Yeah? You don’t mind that I gotta cut this short?”

“Sure I don’t. I’ll walk you back,” Lindsay offers. “If you want?”

“I do want,” says Fiona, “I _do_ want that,” and she links arms with them, like they did in the rink, and lets Lindsay take her the long way back to the hotel. No shortcuts - only time, spent together.


	3. Chapter 3 - Thursday

**(Thursday)**

Fiona works her ass off.

She had a matinee show _and_ an evening performance scheduled today, and whatever energy she’d managed to conserve for tonight has been completely wiped out. She’d danced her _ass_ off. She’d earned her fucking rest, in her opinion.

She’s not gonna get it in the rooms she has to share with the other dancers, who are split between eyeing up groupies and tech guys who work behind the scenes, or deciding where and how exactly they should ice their limbs. Fiona knows where she wants to ice hers - especially now she knows she’s not going to be doing anything more strenuous than skating lemons.

When she steps out into the fresh air of Los Santos - fresher than some cities, anyway, and even then that’s probably because of the coast - it’s still surprisingly light outside. That kind of summer twilight can descend on a metropolis for hours at a time, it seems, and Fiona likes it. The half-light; the orange shadows, that hide all kinds of blemishes and bruises. Better than the heavy night which hides intentions.

Especially here.

It’s a surprise, therefore, when the crowd clears up a little. After the show, some assholes are fond of hanging around the stage doors in the hopes of leering at some of the dancers, unaware that they’re all in sweatpants within five minutes of the end of the performance.

But this isn’t leering. And this isn’t ‘hanging out’ to see just any old dancer, now.

“Oh, what the _fuck_.”

Fiona dislikes surprises laying in wait for her, but as far as surprises go, this is a remarkably good one. Leaning against a streetlight is Lindsay, their arms crossed and their fiery red hair cascading down their shoulders. They're stood with a tall man made of elastic bands, and a stockier dude who seems to be made, entirely in contrast, of freckles and frustration.

“Lindsay,” Fiona gapes.

Lindsay wiggles their fingers.

‘Gapes’ is an understatement of her reaction: she’s fucking _flabbergasted_. “What the _shit_. You came?” she manages to say, and strides right up to her, wanting to take her hands, but unsure if that would be appropriate in front of her company.

“Scored some last minute tickets in the circle,” Lindsay grins, “Michael found some for the three of us, didn’t you?”

“Sure did,” says Freckles, kicking at the floor with the toe of a sneaker. “If Lindsay asks, _hey, do you wanna get bevved and watch some sharp choreography?_ , then you’d best believe I’m pullin’ strings.”

He’s got a cutting East Coast edge to his words, which curdles in comparison to the strange, block-like syllables the other man opens his mouth to come out with.

“Yeah,” he says, in a neatly clipped English accent, “not to mention this was the most important suggestion we’ve had all week, so we wanted to burn off some energy on it. That part when you and that other girl fell from the ceiling to the floor, that was like BASE jumping or sommat! Good steps. I liked it.”

“Uh… Thanks,” Fiona says. She’s still wildly taken aback. “ _Good steps?_ What the fuck.”

Freckles - _Michael_ \- pretends to slap him over the back of the head. “Speak English, asshole.”

“That _was_ English! She _stepped_ , it was good, what do you want me to _say_ \--!”

Fiona decides that she quite likes the company that Lindsay keeps. These guys are cracking her the fuck up.

“No offense,” Lindsay tells her, while Michael and the elastic band man bicker behind her, “but you look fucking exhausted. I mean, I’m not surprised after your routines, but… You okay?”

Fiona scrunches up her face. “I could go for some food, I’m not gonna lie,” she admits.

Michael pauses his gesticulating, to flip Gavin an ultimatum of a middle finger and return his attention to Lindsay. “Me and Gavin, we gotta pick up that food with Sarah for the guys,” he says, “so we should probably go.”

“You’re already late, what’s the difference?”

“Well, she gets het up if we don’t bother to come at all,” Gavin admits, “and Sarah’s a bit scary, I’m not gonna lie.”

“Me and Fiona are gonna go Aipom then,” decides Lindsay, and while Michael and Gavin look satisfied with this development, Fiona is one hundred percent still in the dark.

“Alright, see you later--”

“Yeah, good dancing, dude, that was awesome, it was cool meeting you--”

“Aipom?” Fiona asks, as they abruptly split up. She marvels at how quickly Lindsay’s friends lose themselves in the midst of the bustle outside the venue. “What the fuck is _Aipom_?”

Lindsay smirks. “One of our friends loves pizza and Pokémon. There’s this place called ‘A Pizza My Mind’ that does the best meat feast in Los Santos, it’s awesome-- but yeah, A-P-M-M, Aipom, it’s… it’s stupid.”

“Yeah, it’s _dumb_ ,” Fiona beams. Pizza with an attractive acquaintance. It’s not a date, but she’s excited anyway.

“I should’ve checked. Are you vegetarian? Vegan?” asks Lindsay. “Lactose intolerant? Gluten--?”

“Nah,” Fiona reassures them. “Just hungry.”

“Oh, right. Well, in case you’re lying or whatever, I _do_ have some of those ‘don’t shit yourself’ milk pills on me for when Michael wants a shake,” they say proudly, “and I don’t mind sharing.”

It’s _not_ a date. But nevertheless…

Well, Fiona thinks this might already be the best date she’s ever been on.

When they enter the pizza joint, even the air is calmer and lighter. It’s one of those places that looks like it’s been exactly the same since the late nineties, complete with a light up counter and sandy-looking floor tiles, except - well, it’s _clean_. There’s not many people eating in, but the ones who are doing so eat quietly, and talk comfortably amongst each other, like extras, as cheap pop music floats down from the radio speakers.

“It’s like a low-budget game show set in here,” Fiona murmurs, and she means it in the way that someone clearly loves it enough to keep it pretty.

The server is a dark-haired woman, with soft features and immaculately penciled eyebrows. She’s hovering near the phone, and appears to also have command over the kitchen, because she doesn’t even need to speak to communicate with one of the girls who just held up a utensil at her. Seamless.

She turns to greet her customers, and a smile spreads over her face like peanut butter.

“Lindsay! How’s tricks?”

“Hey, Sofía,” says Lindsay, leaning over the counter. “They’re okay. How are you doin’?”

“Not too bad,” smirks the server. “Great timing - we just put a bunch of flavors in the oven ten minutes ago, should be ready real soon. Thanks for dropping off those new logo designs, by the way. Give my love to the artist.”

“Always,” Lindsay replies, and orders some slices before Fiona can even _begin_ to protest. It’s like they have their own system with this woman - something easy and businesslike, but friendly all the same. The pair seem like they go back a little while. This order probably won’t take too long.

“Can we sit in a booth?” Fiona asks them, in a small voice.

Lindsay’s smile is blinding. “Oh, hell yes, of course we can,” they agree, “do you wanna get soda?”

The booths aren’t even those ones that you have to squeeze into - Fiona throws herself against the cold vinyl, and thinks that the seats might even be more comfortable than her mattress back in the dancers’ dorm.

Lindsay slides in opposite her. “Sofía said there’s extra fries for the road and on the house, if you wanna grab some before we leave,” they say, and pushes over the tray with their haul on it. Interestingly enough, they folds their pizza widthways instead of lengthways when they eat it, so that the point is tucked into the crust. What a weirdo.

“So…” Fiona says, trying not to let too much jealousy bleed into her tone. “Old flame?”

“Hm?”

“Back there,” she elaborates. “How’d you know the woman at the counter?”

“Oh,” Lindsay says, and lights up with recognition. “Sofía? No, not an old flame, _hah_ , she’s a mutual friend. She and my buddy Jeremy know each other. Pal of a pal.”

 _“Pal of a pal,”_ Fiona titters. “God, that’s so funny.”

“Is it?”

“To me, I guess,” she says, “I don’t think I know any pals of pals. I don’t got any friends these days. Failed step one.”

Lindsay snorts. “Well, you’ve got me,” they shrug, and shoves fries into their face like they didn’t just say the nicest affirmation in the whole universe, like it was _nothing_.

Fiona chews on the crust like it didn’t just turn to rubber in her mouth.

“What about the other dancers? You’re not close?” Lindsay asks. “I thought you had to travel with them all the time.”

“Yeah, but they’re little poopoo babies,” says Fiona, who is certain of these facts. “Honestly, I don’t think they’re mature enough to keep up with me, y’know?”

Lindsay chokes laughing, cupping crumbs in their hand until they're not in danger of spraying them across the entirety of the pizza joint. “Yeah, maturity is real important when it comes to making friends,” they say hoarsely, and they pause to take an extended sip of soda - “I think it might be the deciding factor on whether to keep hanging out with strangers sometimes, actually.”

“Yeah, me too,” Fiona says through a mouthful. “Guess it’s a good job that we’re such upstanding fuckin’ adults.”

“Profesh as hell.”

“Oh, fuck yeah, of course.”

“I’m glad I kept seeing you around,” Lindsay says casually, dipping fries into their ketchup, “like, for real, I’m glad. This has been so fun. I was thinking about this all day. And I’m happy Michael and Gavin liked your dancing, I was wondering what they would think about you.”

“Really? I wonder more about what _you_ think about me than, uh… What _men_ think,” Fiona admits. “Generally, but specifically now, too.”

Lindsay considers this. They thoughtfully chew on some pepperoni until it _must_ be past the point of mush, before swallowing:

“I think you’re talented. I think you’re hard working. I think you probably rub people up the wrong way, because there’s not much in you that cares about other people’s opinions, just what _you_ can do with your own damn self! But mostly, I think you’re a sweet girl, with a foul mouth, in a job where you never have to use it,” they say, leaning into Fiona’s personal space. Fiona holds her breath when Lindsay smiles. “And I think that’s a _waste_.”

There’s a brief moment, where the two of them hold eye contact, and the only signs that the Earth is still turning are the muffled sounds of the pizza joint’s radio and the distant, blurry bustle coming from the kitchen.

Fiona blinks.

“I can cram it with pizza, though,” she says. (She doesn’t really know how to thank Lindsay for all those nice words.)

“You can?”

“I can,” she grins, and steals a bite of Lindsay’s slice, quick as a flash, while it still hangs from their hand.

“Oh, you bitch--”

Fiona stretches her grin around cheesy dough. “Who’s sweet now?” she challenges, thick through the angles and the sauce. “Who’s fuckin’ sweet _now_ , Lindsay? Fuckin’-- answer me _that_ \--”

“Not me,” says Lindsay, who is suddenly very preoccupied with tearing open little paper packets. While they work away, they flick the discarded tabs at Fiona’s stolen slice.

“Why? What’re you?”

“Salty,” says Lindsay, and tips ten salt sachets at once over Fiona’s fries.

Fiona watches them do it, too.

“Ohhhhhhhh,” she says eventually. “ _Oh_ , you bitch. That’s so fucking funny. We’re gonna need those fries for the road, Lindsay.”

Lindsay’s wiping tears from the corners of their eyes with a knuckle: “I think we might,” they laugh, and they scoop the mess into the tray. “I’ll let Sofía know.”

And that’s what they do. Lindsay and Fiona collect their fry winnings on the way out of A Pizza My Mind, and share them on the walk back to where Fiona’s troupe are staying, because she has a shitload of stuff to do tomorrow. And _really,_ her legs are _incredibly_ tired after carrying those assholes through the show two whole times today.

She’s holding the paper bag, and Lindsay leans across her to pick some more fries out. “Was this better than the ice?” they ask, and pop them into their mouth.

“By a million miles,” Fiona beams. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than ruin perfectly good fast food with you, Lindsay From The Rink.”

“Not even dance?”

“Not even dance,” Fiona says, and means it.


	4. Chapter 4 - Friday

**(Friday)**

Fridays are busy days. Fiona doesn’t have any rehearsals today, just shows until after dark, so when she finally dips through the stage doors, she’s hoping for something soothing. Something… not too intense. Back home, she’d crash through the doors, take a final, flying leap into bed, and watch anime until she could hear the more conservative clubs down the block closing up.

Here, though, she looks for Lindsay, and finds them; waiting for her not outside the stadium, this time, but all the way over at the rink.

“Almost thought you weren’t gonna be around tonight,” Fiona smiles.

“I’m always around,” Lindsay says, scuffing their soles against the sidewalk. “I thought we could do something different tonight, and this is on the way, so…”

“What did you have in mind?” Fiona asks.

Lindsay looks bashful, almost uncomfortable, and visibly psyches themself up to ask: “I was thinking maybe we could hit up some bars, try some stupid strong drinks and shoot the shit for a few hours. I don’t know if you can afford to get blasted before your big show tomorrow, but--”

“No, I can,” Fiona says quickly, “as long as I’m not blackout, we’re good. But…”

Lindsay raises a hopeful eyebrow. “But…?”

“I, uh… I don’t have any money.”

“I’ll pay.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Fiona says, horrified, “not with city prices, fuck!”

“I don’t mind,” says Lindsay. But Fiona’s already got other ideas.

“Listen,” she says, “I’m sure you’ve got some expectations on your project manager salary or whatever, but I’ll have you know that after a day like mine, I’m a cheap-ass date, and unfortunately, you’re just gonna have to _deal with it_. Where’s the nearest liquor store?”

“Oh, we’re going to the liquor store?”

“Yeah, we are,” Fiona confirms, and pulls them by the cuff into blind jaywalking, “I’ve danced for three eight-thousand-person crowds today, and I don’t wanna be around any motherfucker but you. So let’s get drunk and trespass in a park or some shit, and make the most of it without any bells or whistles. That sound okay?”

“Fuck _yes_ that’s okay!” laughs Lindsay, and allows themself to be dragged across the road to the Liquor Deli.

Out the back of the ice rink is a skate park - mostly concrete, with some sad patches of balding grass. After deciding simultaneously on a bright orange bottle of whiskey to share (which Lindsay wields like a club on their way back out), they sit on the rim of a funbox and pass Fireball back and forth. 

“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” Lindsay asks. “Big show, right?”

Fiona kicks her heels against the slope. “Prepared,” she settles on, “but I don’t wanna talk about _that_. I put on the outfit they tell me to, and I do what they ask, and my boss stays off my ass for a couple more weeks. Big Shows are just big, stupid versions of the little shows.”

“Yeah, I used to have jobs that felt like that,” Lindsay says cryptically.

“Most of all they’re _boring_ ,” whines Fiona, “honestly, I tune out halfway through doing them, the big shows are a _real_ pain in my asshole. This contract takes all the fun out of what I used to love. It sucks.”

“Maybe one day,” Lindsay says, passing the bottle of Fireball back over, “you can take a contract that keeps performing exciting.”

“Yeah, maybe. It’d be nice to have some creative control over my shit,” Fiona mutters. She doesn’t swig the whiskey, but she does take an extended sip, warm amber soothing her throat and settling in her tummy. Around them, Los Santos is like cinnamon - cloying and loud, in excitable orange.

She passes the bottle back to Lindsay, who stares at the neck for a few moments, like they're studying the manufacturer’s label for some awe-inspiring same-sex secrets of the universe. After a few seconds of nothing, they fix their gaze at the half-pipe, instead:

“I have a bike,” they blurt out.

“A little bicycle? Cute!” Fiona grins, “I think you’d probably end up with a CUI right now, though.”

“No, it’s a motorbike. I actually have a couple,” they add, “but there’s this one bike that’s my favorite, and I-- I thought maybe you’d wanna come out on it sometime with me. Not now, but sometime. In the future.”

Fiona is breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“I’d love that,” she says. “It’s been ages since I rode a bike. Someday, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lindsay smiles, and passes the bottle back. It’s easy to drink quietly with them, Fiona’s finding - they’ve already finished about a quarter of the bottle between them, and she’s starting to feel a little fuzzy-headed.

“I don’t know when I’ll be in San Andreas again,” Fiona says, just as Lindsay asks, “can I give you my number?”

“--What?”

“Can I give you my number?” they repeat, “my cell, my personal contact, can I give it to you? Not my work one, like… My real number.”

Fiona draws her knees up over her chest. “I’m not allowed to have outside contacts. I don’t even get to talk to my mom when I’m on a traveling performance contract,” she mumbles. “I guess I could memorize it? I could try.”

To Fiona’s relief, Lindsay doesn’t seem to have interpreted this as an excuse. “That sounds lonely,” they murmur.

“It’s okay… Mom can look after herself. And so can I.”

Los Santos in darkness is dingy, with the odd neon streak and the faint smell of gasoline, and it’s nothing like home. There are no palm trees out east. No huge moon hanging in the sky like a dinner plate. Fiona misses the freedom of Liberty City, but most of all, Fiona misses her mom.

She sips the Fireball, and sets the bottom back down between them.

“Can I say something?” Lindsay asks, and when Fiona gives them an expectant nod, they say, “it kinda sounds like prison, this dancing gig you’ve got. No offense.”

“None taken,” Fiona sighs. “It’s not exactly a dream job, no.”

She braces herself and leans back, letting her legs dangle again, knocking her heels against the slope of the funbox-- but Fiona surprises herself when she accidentally lays one of her hands against Lindsay’s. Like a fucking rom-com, or something.

It jolts something in her heart, and when Lindsay doesn’t say anything about it - just reaches for the bottle of Fireball with their other hand - Fiona daringly keeps her palm exactly where it is, right over the top of Lindsay’s fingers.

“Whatever,” she says, and feels a little better about it. “I’ll get out one day.”

They get halfway through the bottle by the time they decide to move. “Do you wanna skate one last time?” Fiona asks. “I’m trying not to think about it, but I’m not gonna get a chance tomorrow, and it’d be cool to finish up where we met.”

“Fuck yes,” says Lindsay, and blinks hard against their own whiskey haze.

Every city has sirens in the background, and this place is no exception. The only difference seems to be that even in her current state, she can hear exactly where they’re coming from. It’s weird. Usually the noise is completely surrounding, but here it’s… _Precise_.

The sunset has quickly deteriorated tonight, and so has Fiona’s sobriety - she almost stumbles right off the edge of the concrete when she tries to stand up.

“Oh my god,” Lindsay snorts, and offers her a hand up.

They keep holding it all the way back into the rink.

“This is the best idea we’ve had so far,” Fiona remarks, as they pay admission and collect their shoes. “I love skating. It’s the best. _You’re_ the best.”

It’s nice to have a moment to themselves, with Lindsay’s big troublemaking grin and Fiona’s heart hammering pleasantly in her ribcage. She’s got an important night tomorrow - Saturday is the Big Show - but tonight, she’s got a stomach full of whiskey and a shared, incredible decision. Drunken skating. What a great idea!

“It’s really hitting me now,” she confesses. Lindsay loses it, watching Fiona try to lace her skates, and she’s not putting up with _that_. “Come on, Lindsay, seriously? Like you’re any better, we’re gonna have to cut you out of them, look at those knots--”

“N’aw, hurry up,” Lindsay grins. They don’t look bothered in the slightest, but their cheeks are a shade rosier than before the visit to the liquor store. “C’mon. We gotta go back in so you can show me one last lemon.”

“Oh, god,” says Fiona, who is shakier on her feet that she thought she would be.

She actually turns out to be way better at staying upright when she gets to the ice, and immediately slips out a few feet from the barrier. Lindsay, on the other hand, steps gingerly onto the surface of the rink like a shitfaced baby deer trying to cross the road.

“Ooh, fuck,” they mumble.

Fiona _cackles_. “One last lemon! One! Last! lemon!” she chants, raising her fists in the air jubilantly, and Lindsay doubles over with poorly-contained laughter - their whole air of ‘baby deer’ is about to get vibe checked by an oncoming zamboni.

“Fuck you, Fiona!” they yell. “If you’re so good, do a jump!”

“Hell yeah, I’ll do a jump. I’ll do a _leap_ , I’ll jump like a little ice frog,” Fiona says, and strikes her feet out, gathering speed: “a little froggie jump, is that what you wanna see? I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna do it--”

She does it; an exaggerated half-flip skate, where she leaves the ground for a second and a couple feet too long. The teenagers at the rink back home who taught her? They’d be fucking impressed right now. When she lands, her knees are wobbling with whiskey and laughter.

“You barely managed it!” Lindsay says. It’s bait. They're being a shit on purpose.

“See,” laughs Fiona, squeaking, sliding back their way, “this is why the dancers aren’t allowed out. Or allowed to drink. You’re gonna break me, Rink Lindsay, you’re gonna _break_ me--”

“You’re unbreakable!” Lindsay crows, and drags themself over by the barrier.

Fiona takes a second to take them in - not wearing the puffy jacket they were on the first night, but something thin and blue, making the tumble of their bright red hair look like an unmixed slushie cup. Their smile is so wide and constant that the lines in the corners of their eyes look comfortable there, and their stance, although uncertain on the ice, is wide and welcoming as they approach. Full of trust, maybe.

Fiona bites her lip.

“I guess this is the last time we’ll ever see each other,” Lindsay muses, slowly clawing their way closer. “For realsies this time, not like, some coincidence thing.”

It’s a nasty thought. “Yeah,” Fiona says, her heart sinking like jettisoned cargo, “I guess it is.”

Lindsay shoots her a sideways glance: “I tried to get tickets for tomorrow, you know. Come and see your Big Show.”

She swallows, thickly, her mouth suddenly full of cotton.

“…You did?”

“Uh huh. I thought it would be at the stadium, like the rest of them. Weird thing was,” they say, “that nothing existed for tomorrow. No event. Nada! I _really_ tried, Fiona, honest I did--”

“It’s a private performance,” says Fiona miserably. “Tickets weren’t on sale to the public. Lots of pressure for something that doesn’t even fuckin’ matter. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you at all, it’s so stupid--”

“Ah,” Lindsay nods. “I… see.”

So Fiona rushes to seize their hands, skidding on the ice in her desperation: “I wish you could come,” she says, pulling them closer, “I wish you could come _so bad,_ Lindsay. I wish I could give you my number, I wish I could score you tickets, I-- I’ve _super_ liked coming out each night and seeing you waiting for me, god! And knowing you were in the audience yesterday made me better at what I was doing today, ‘cos you said _you_ enjoyed it! But…” 

She can’t think of a way to end the sentence.

And it’s okay.

It’s fine.

Lindsay squeezes her hands. 

“I’ve liked being there,” they say simply, and they break into a reassuring, soft-looking grin. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

She wants to say so many more things. Fiona wants to say that she’s _more_ than liked it, that it’s been the highlight of her tour, the highlight of her whole _career_ \- that she hasn’t been ‘putting up’ with Lindsay at all, and that she wishes she could stay.

She wants to say that last part most of all.

She’s about to, in fact, when Lindsay slides closer on their skates, pulls her closer by their linked hands, and kisses her.

There’s an uncomfortable bump as their noses collide with each other’s cheekbones, but holy _fuck,_ like Fiona even has the brain cells to care about that right now - she pulls Lindsay as close as she can by their joined hands, only to let go and clutch at their waist with chilly palms. Lindsay’s mouth is hot and moving over hers hard and fast, and they taste of spice and cinnamon, and their hands are firm and gentle in Fiona’s hair in a way that makes her groan against their lips.

So Fiona backs them against the wall of the rink to make out with them _properly_. It’s the polite thing to do.

Lindsay hums a quiet, desperate noise into the space against the bridge of Fiona’s nose. It sends a shiver of want right through her - the two of them are drunk and alone on the ice, and she’s never been more glad to break the dancer’s curfew than she is at this very moment. Fiona hooks a leg around the back of Lindsay’s thigh before remembering that she’s effectively wearing knife shoes right now, so she settles for twisting her fists in the blue jacket, and pressing their bodies as close to one another as they’ll go. Lindsay’s hair is soft and free against her cheekbones, drawing the curtains on the rest of the rink.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” she says hoarsely, in one of the brief moments that they break apart. She immediately rectifies that.

“Gotta follow your contract, though, right?” Lindsay says a moment later. Their words are hot and airy over Fiona’s jaw. “You can always come back.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

With a final swipe of their tongue, Lindsay draws back, putting distance between them. Fiona’s fucking _disappointed_ with this development at first, but then:

“If you’re ever in the city again,” Lindsay says breathlessly, “swing by the pizza place, okay? Sofía’s worked with some of my colleagues before, she’ll know how to get in contact with me. We can hang out. We could do this all over again.”

Fiona takes Lindsay’s cuffs again and drags them both backwards, until they’re slowly edging into the center of the rink together. 

“I would like that so much,” she says, “that you have _no_ idea.”

And then she kisses them, for one last time.


	5. Chapter 5 - Saturday

**(Saturday)**

Fiona is in a foul mood. She hates herself for getting into this mess, for signing on to this shitty gig where she wears what she’s told, and never stays still, and never has support, not even from the dancers who are supposed to hold her up. It’s the best way to learn how to fall without damaging yourself too bad, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt at all.

Fiona’s in a foul mood - despite the fact that she’s narrowly avoided a hangover today - and the last person she wants to see is existing loudly within earshot.

“Are you coming to rehearsal?” asks Harri, brushing her hair into that stupid set of pigtails. Fiona always wonders if it doesn’t hurt her scalp to pull them that tight - maybe it does. Maybe Harri’s just as powerless with her performance image as she is.

Fiona’s still not gonna look at her, though. “Nah,” she says, focusing perhaps _too_ intently on pulling up her socks. “Tell Wells I got other stuff to do.”

“Suit yourself,” Harri says, with a curl of her lip, “it’s not my funeral - it’ll be yours, when he catches you and flays you alive.”

It’s a good job that no matter how much they despise each other, none of the troupe would ever even _consider_ ratting anyone out for ditching - everyone has their own version of a ‘field trip’ to keep themselves sane. That’s survival.

So Harri leaves with a flourish, tossing her hairbrush onto the bed with a little bounce. Not even Sike is in the dorm, though the TV _is_ airing another police report about a string of private property thefts - Fiona’s the last and only one left.

She yanks on her shoes with significant force. “He won’t _flay me alive_ ,” Fiona mutters to herself. (The mocking pitch makes her feel a little better.)

It’s a stupid uniform they have her in today - a black turtleneck, black pants so tight that they’re practically sprayed onto her, and black boots, plus a black goddamn beanie hat to match. She looks like a fucking beatnik. It’s _embarrassing_. It’s cliché.

She can’t _wait_ to be done with this one, she thinks, as she cracks open the window, eases herself onto the ledge, and lowers herself down into the grounds. As if this getup is gonna help her blend in at the museum… Honestly.

* * *

Once upon a time, Fiona had lived in Liberty City.

All sorts of shit happens in a place like that. Now that’s a _real_ city. Grime and grit and grease, and little bastards running up and down the dirty boulevard all damn day long. She should know - she’d been one of them, once. 

They’d called her Zizi, and she’d run diamonds.

There are a lot of bad habits that come with being a jewelry thief, and they’re remarkably difficult to kick. Being a cat burglar is a little like learning to ride a bike, or ice skate; you never forget, and eventually, you learn how to lean into it with very little effort at all.

* * *

The museum is easy to get into. She’s been given an electronic key fob that will bypass door alarms and display case alerts, so none of _that_ is going to be a problem - pretty much all Fiona has to do is avoid security guards and keep out of the way of the cameras. Wells’ guys didn’t even give her anything to cover her face with this time, which sucks, so she’ll have to be extra careful.

But goddamnit, that’s what they picked her up for, right? What’s a cat burglar without a little stealth.

The Crystal Museum in Los Santos currently has an exhibition on nineteenth century jewelry. It’s on the fourth floor. It’s been open for a month or so, which was enough time for Wells to add an extra date to the troupe’s tour - it’s not so hard for him to negotiate stuff, given how fucking rich he is, given how many people he owns. It makes Fiona feel sick, that he did this solely to deploy her.

So what an unpleasant surprise it is, to see someone else wandering the exhibition rooms on floor four.

Fiona ducks behind a pillar and holds her breath. Not a security guard - there are only two patrolling tonight, and as luck would have it, both of them are audibly chatting over the coffee machine on the _first_ floor. So who the hell is this?

She sneaks another look.

A figure who's clearly not either of the male guards. No uniform, either. Definitely not an employee. They're in a checkered gray waistcoat - in fact, they're monochrome to the core, with jet black jeans, a dark wristwatch, and a _matte pistol_ in their hands to match - with oddly thick sunglasses that mirror Fiona’s own surprise back at her. The intruder’s hair is tied up in a sturdy bun, and the shade is unmistakable. A warm, dangerous, artificial red.

And they're staring right at her, from across the room.

All the blood runs in shivers down Fiona’s back; down through her legs, pooling in her feet and running out of her toes, carrying on in scarlet streams to drip through the floor like a pipe leak.

Oh no.

The figure turns the rest of their body to follow the direction of their head, their attention comically snagged, like they've been caught in truck headlights. Slowly, in a manner as though a sudden movement might attract a T-Rex, they pull down their shades. Dark eyebrows crown icy eyes.

This is crazy. This is _insane_. Fiona wants to speak this situation into existence - just to make sure it’s actually happening - but she can’t get her mouth to work.

Lindsay removes their shades entirely.

 _Fiona?!_ they mouth. _What the fuck, man?!_

She scowls back her response: _I could ask you the same thing!!_

Lindsay waves the pistol back and forth, gesturing at both of them. They’ve got a fucking _pistol_ , for god’s sake.

_We talked about this, it’s the jewelry exhibit._

_Yeah_ , Fiona nods, and spreads her arms wide. _But you said as a_ _visit_ _, like a_ _field trip_ _\--_

She suddenly remembers where they are, and checks over her shoulder - still no sign of any guards, and hopefully there won’t be, if she plays her cards right. Fiona scampers forwards, until there’s only four display cases between them, rather than a whole room.

 _What are you here for?_ she mouths.

Lindsay vaguely jabs their gun at the space behind them. There’s a relatively small painting in an elaborate gold frame on the floor, half propped up against a glass case.

 _That_. _Mostly._

Oh my god, Fiona _doesn’t_ say, because she’s trying to keep fucking quiet.

She suddenly notices that Lindsay’s about five strides away from the doorway to the exhibit she’s been sent here for. Unfortunately for her, Lindsay also notices the movement of her eyes, caught by the frantic motion of it all, and visibly realizes which room she’s here to thieve from.

So Fiona dives for the door.

Not fast enough - Lindsay’s closer, so they make it there at the exact same time - and Fiona runs straight into their grip. Lindsay grabs her around the biceps, holding her back from doing anything sudden or stupid, and Fiona…

Well, Fiona lightly _loses it._

“No, Lindsay, Lindsay, _please_ , you don’t understand,” she begs, nearly under her breath, shaking with adrenaline, shaking maybe just a little bit with fear, “you don’t _understand_ , this is more than just a job to me--”

“And you’re more than just a rival to me,” says Lindsay.

It’s gentler than Fiona thought it might be. Their soft tone grates against Fiona’s panicked pleas in a way that makes her feel nauseous as _fuck_. What an inconvenient time to get the urge to barf.

Nevertheless, she stops struggling in Lindsay’s hold.

“It’s important,” she says pathetically.

“Okay. So what if it is? Tell me what’s going on, Fiona,” Lindsay says. “I might be able to help you - or at least fuck things up in a useful way, I don’t know.”

“Wells,” she blurts out, “the troupe boss, he’s got all us dancers in on _real_ sus contracts, mostly protection in exchange for labor but--”

“So the diamonds are for him,” Lindsay finishes. “Got the performers doing his dirty work. You steal it, you move on to the next concert before the cops pick up on your trail, I think I get it. Are you being blackmailed?”

“I-- kinda,” she says, “my, uh, my Mom, in Liberty City, she thinks I have a real job. It’s all I can do, I pay her rent and I don’t say a _word_ to her. I stole shit from Wells, back when I was solo, he’s had me ever since--”

“Okay,” Lindsay says, too calmly. “Okay, I gotcha.”

Fiona reaches out, curling her hand protectively around the curve of Lindsay’s shoulder. “What about you?” she asks miserably. “What’s happening with _you_ , are you okay?! Do you need me to fuck someone up?!”

Lindsay’s eyebrows shoot into their hair.

“Me? No way,” they say, “I’m with the Fakes, baby, I’m their wildcard! Queen of Chaos. I’m all good. I promise.”

Queen… Queen of Chaos?

Fiona stares.

Then she smacks Lindsay in the arm.

“You mother _fucker_!” she hisses, “you had me so _worried_ , I thought you were in some sorta trouble! You’re with the Fakes?”

“Well, you know what they say,” they say, “crime’s a field trip here in Los Santos. This enby’s got friend-bies. Et cetera.”

“Fuck,” says Fiona, “I’ve seen you on TV! That’s _crazy_.”

And hey, know what else is crazy? It’s when Fiona turns to her left, and the security guard in the doorway with the fresh cup of coffee says, _“hey!”_

Lindsay beans him with their pistol from twenty yards away. It spirals through the air as he struggles to reach for his radio, some instinct telling him not to drop his coffee even in a moment like this, and the butt catches him neatly against the temple.

The cup smashes. Black coffee sprays all over. The gun clatters when it hits the floor; the guard’s unconscious body makes more of a _flumph_ sound.

Fiona can’t tear her eyes away. “You had a gun,” she says slowly, “and you _threw_ it at him.”

“Yeah,” Lindsay says, “but it worked.”

“Okay,” says Fiona, who’s in danger of hyperventilating, if she’s being honest. “I can go my way, and you can go your way, and we can pretend that we never saw each other, and it’ll be _fine_ , and then the Fakes won’t have to get mixed up with Kellyn Wells and it’ll be okay. Right? It’ll be okay.”

But Lindsay’s still standing beside her, staring at the unconscious guard. They’ve maybe got fifteen minutes before the other guard comes across him.

“Work together?” they suggest.

Oh, the overwhelming loss of tension is like _heroin_. “Work together,” Fiona confirms, and her legs wobble with sheer relief, but shit. She’s got a job and a _half_ to do now. Her and Lindsay, joining operations. Imagine that--

“Cool,” says Lindsay, “because I got backup coming.”

“--You’ve got _what_?!”

“Hey, I don’t do this shit alone!” they say defensively, “I like having someone else to blame when it all goes fucking wrong. That’s what Gavin’s for.”

“That elastic band dude you brought to the show?!” Fiona squeaks, as quietly as she can. “Are you serious? Y’all are really just running around this town looking for spare paintings--”

Lindsay snorts. “It’s a _city,_ we’ve been through this,” they say.

With a quick flash of a smile, like lighting, they clasp Fiona by the hand and pull her in the direction of the jewelry exhibit, the painting propped underarm _far_ too casually. With their other hand, they pull out a burner cell, and start to text someone with a lightning-quick thumb.

“My guys are meeting us there,” they report, “they’ve been standing guard by the elevator just in case.”

“Your guys?” Fiona asks.

Lindsay doesn’t elaborate. “What are you after?”

“It’s a fuckin’ necklace, looks like a capital ‘D’, gold and blue and full of fuckin’ _diamonds_ , man!”

It’s easy to find once they’re in the thick of the jewelry exhibit. Amidst the elaborate bracelets, the cuffs and the anklets and the two-ton earrings that look like they’d pin your head to the ground, is one rectangular display case with the item of the moment inside.

And yet she still jumps when two figures march through the door - one stocky, one lanky, both armed. The lanky one has a golden gun, of all the wanky things possible. She’d laugh if she wasn’t, you know, in probably mortal danger.

Upon their approach, it becomes apparent that they’re the men Lindsay was with on the night they came to see Fiona’s real dance performance. “Did you get it?” the stocky one demands - Michael, she remembers. The other one must be Gavin.

“One naked baby picture, mint condition,” Lindsay grins. “Oh, I got a nice vase for Matt, too, I thought he might wanna turn it into a bong or a lamp or something. What a weirdo. It’s in my bag.”

Michael seems satisfied, until he turns a critical eye onto Fiona, and furrows his eyebrows. “Who the _fuck_ is this?”

“I could say the same thing!” Fiona says hotly, but Lindsay doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“Michael, Zizi. Zizi, Michael. She stole shiny shit in Liberty City, now she’s here with us,” they explain, and it smashes into Fiona like a cartoon anvil, tears springing to her eyes like the words were tabasco to them - _she’s here with us,_ Lindsay had said, including her without a second thought, or probably even much of a _first_ thought. Us, us, _us!_ It cycles through her blood like a rickety bike chain.

“Didn’t know we were gonna have gatecrashers tonight,” says Michael, sounding bored. “But I don’t really care, you met me already. I thought you were called Fiona? What’s ‘Zizi’?”

“I’m guessing it’s not the Italian restaurant franchise,” Gavin snorts, “I thought ‘zizi’ was French?”

“Yeah, it is,” says Fiona. _“I’m_ French. It’s like ‘peepee’, it’s like ‘little peepee’. It’s supposed to be a slap in the face for everyone with small wieners and big bank accounts. I thought it was funny at the time.”

Michael laughs so hard he coughs:

“It _is_ funny!”

 _“Little peepee,”_ Gavin guffaws, “your criminal code name is _dicklet!_ That’s amazing!”

Fiona heads over to the case. “Yeah,” she says, “but Dicklet’s gotta dick down on these shitty clear rocks, so we gotta start moving if you wanna haul your artwork outta here, too.”

“Lindsay, this woman makes zero sense at _all_ ,” Michael says to them, but he follows anyway. (What a lovely display of solidarity.) “So where’s this diamond at, Fifi?”

“Diamond _ssss_ ,” Fiona corrects, “die-ah-mon-dissssss. Plural, Michael, plural.”

“You got _more than one_ diamond?” he asks, forehead crinkling in surprise. “Damn! That’s a pretty good thing to come for, actually, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not my first choice. I don’t like stealing from museums,” she says, lip curling involuntarily. “Back in the day, I did jobs on my own against the rich assholes gentrifying the neighborhood. Now I steal culture from the public, and it fuckin’ _blows_.”

“Yeah, Mister Rogers would be so upset,” Lindsay remarks.

“Is that why you’re dressed like a cartoon burglar?”

“Shut your trap, Elastic Band, I _have_ to wear this,” she says to Gavin, “at least I’m not the one with shades in his pocket at _night_. I don’t like looking like a drainpipe, but at least it’s appropriate for plural diamonds.”

Gavin shrugs, barely ashamed, and squints into the case. “I-- That’s fair,” he says. “So it’s not one big one you’re after… It’s a bunch of little ones. _Cool_.”

“Yeah, exactly,” she confirms. “It’s set in gold from the gold rush in Alaska. Nice piece, actually, real nice… It’s a hundred years old, over a hundred fuckin’ years, can you believe that? _Crazy._ ”

Lindsay has the decency to look impressed, but the stocky one isn’t too sure. “Yeah, I can,” says Michael, distinctly tired, “it’s in the nineteenth century exhibit, and we live in the twenty-first century, so it’s more like _two_ hundred, genius.”

“Alright, poindexter, why don’t you back off?” Fiona retorts.

“Okay, c’mon,” says Lindsay, who has apparently decided that enough is enough. “We’re running low on time, so I’m gonna need you to get your butt in gear, Fiona. Michael, can you stand guard with me, just in case?”

Michael agrees; when he turns his back, it reveals a decal on the back of his leather jacket. A snarling wolf. It looks like he’s customized it, because there’s an outline of some writing which is no longer featured on the design.

Weird.

Fiona turns her attention to the display case. It’s easier to open with the key fob, because it’s not as valuable - it’s on its own, no matching bracelet or earrings or fuckin’... _tiara_ , or anything like that. It comes how it comes, and it’s about to get gutted.

“Are you just gonna pop the diamonds out?” asks Gavin, hovering over her shoulder.

“Oh, sure. Yeah, why not, they’re older than the frame. I don’t give a shit what happens to them afterwards,” she tells him, “I’m kinda just wanting to keep out of jail and off the streets, y’know? I just gotta make it to the drop point after this. Wells could ruin my whole fuckin’ life if I don’t, man, I’ll get him his fuckin’ diamonds if he wants them…”

In the doorway, Michael and Lindsay share an oddly dangerous look. (Fiona’s not sure if she was supposed to see it, because Michael’s face is slightly less stony when he shoots a related look to Gavin.)

“…Where’s your drop point?” Gavin says nonsensically.

“I don’t speak your silent shit,” Fiona says, and finally disengages the lock on the display case. “But it’s in Strawberry. Bunch of garages, one of those strips of rented ones. I know it by sight.”

Gavin doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic for the conversation they’d had without her. (And neither do the other two.) “Where’s your diamond briefcase?” he says instead.

Fiona _scoffs_. Of all the things. “Why the fuck would I bring a _briefcase?”_ she asks. “Everyone expects a briefcase, they’re like, the first thing you’d think of to carry around diamonds in. Too suspicious. Nahh,” she says, with an air of proud finality, “I got me a biiiiig sock.”

Fiona holds it aloft. It’s fluffy. To muffle the sound of diamonds clacking together, of course.

Gavin looks like he’s about to pass out.

“A _sock?”_ he asks. “You brought a bloody _diamond sock_ with you?!”

“Ew. Just ‘cos yours are filled with pearls,” Fiona says, and curls her lip with disgust.

Gavin chokes on his own spit. “Oh,” he says, his laughter clicking with the effort to stay quiet, “I wasn’t expecting that. That’s _disgusting_ , Fiona. We just met and you’re talking about my hypothetical cum socks.”

“You’re gonna wanna stop talkin’ about jizz sometime soon!” Michael calls. “We got company coming!”

“The other guard just found the first one,” Lindsay says, and welp, it’s time to go. Fiona pops out every last diamond, making quick work of twenty- _six_ , twenty- _seven_ , twenty- _eight_ diamonds of varying sizes. Very nice indeed.

It’s just in time, too, because an alarm that Fiona can’t possibly stop blares into every room, shrill and irritating, and Lindsay jumps into action again. “Take bong and baby,” Lindsay says, giving Michael the vase and Gavin the painting. “I got Fiona, we’ll do better if they’re chasing two groups instead of one--”

“Aye aye, cap’n!”

“Don’t fucking say _that_ , Gav, you’ll give them a complex--”

“But _Lindsay_ ,” Fiona says, as the pairs split once again. She doesn’t wanna cause trouble for Lindsay, and _especially_ doesn’t want to for a whole other freaking _gang_ , but apparently the ‘work together’ agreement is still in effect: her protests fall on deaf ears as she’s led back through the halls of floor four.

“If you get caught,” Lindsay tells her, white sirens illuminating their face and hair erratically, “I get the feeling your boss won’t be too happy. And it’d be a _real_ shame for the entertainment industry if they lost one of their best dancers.”

Fiona doesn’t know how to argue with that.

“If we’re quick,” says Lindsay, leading them into another hall, “the cops won’t show up for at least another thirty minutes. The Crystal Museum is out of the way for them, their lazy asses won’t even think about being ready for something like _this_ \--”

“Freeze!” yells what Fiona can only assume is the other security guard. He’s brandishing a pistol.

Lindsay shoots at him. They don’t hit him, not exactly, but they _do_ clip his gun and the hand curled around it. The guard screeches and ducks into the corridor for cover once more.

“This way,” Fiona gets out.

They get moving once again. The guard doesn’t follow them.

“Okay,” says Lindsay, “alright, so we need to find another way out that isn’t the elevator Michael and Gavin took, or the main entrance where the guard is gonna be waiting for us. Probably with his backup. I wonder if there’s a--?”

They stop, dead in the middle of their sentence.

They’ve entered a hallway made entirely of glass - one of the main selling points of the Crystal Museum, Fiona figures - and through the clear walls leading out onto a balcony, there are _clearly_ police cars. As far as the eye can see.

In fact, there’s a veritable goddamn _ocean_ of ice blue and blood, cascading down the avenue.

Lindsay throws open the door in disbelief, and immediately braces themself on the balcony walls.

“Ooooh, _fuck_ ,” says Fiona.

She follows them outside; the wind suddenly whips through her hair, a stark contrast to the controlled environment of the galleries inside. The sirens are louder than the museum alarms, out there, and Lindsay _actually_ looks taken aback. It’s not particularly comforting - after so long of seeing them approach every challenge with a smug smirk and a lazily clenched fist, the ‘Oh, Crap’ moment written on their face is kinda the _opposite_ of what Fiona wanted to see.

“I don’t wanna say it,” Fiona says, saying it anyway, “but I think this is our way out, Lindsay.”

It’s possible that Lindsay says the word _fuck_ under their breath. It’s hard to tell.

“This is, uh,” they start, and they swallow heavily, and start again. Fiona waits for their judgement: “this is… pretty high up, huh.”

“Don’t look down,” says Fiona. She already knows she’s too late - Lindsay’s already glanced at the grounds beneath the balcony, double-digit feet below, and has turned a gross shade of pale algae green. “Fuck _off_. You can do skydiving but you can’t do this?!”

“I don’t have a parachute right now!” Lindsay protests, and you know what? That’s fair. That’s a fair point to make. “Oh, boy,” they say, “I’m gonna throw up. I’m gonna puke and give away our position.”

“I would literally never forgive you,” Fiona says seriously. “We gotta get outta here somehow, Linds, I don’t think we can double back _now_.”

She falls back on old habits, and even older skills. Time to assess her position - the Crystal Museum is old enough to have weirdly loose evacuation equipment, but not so old that it will have been replaced with something modern yet. Cities are cheap like that. There’s no stairs, no easy way down, no pool below that can cushion their fall, but nonetheless:

“We’re gonna have to jump,” Fiona says.

“Oh, no. You’re fucking _kidding_ me,” says Lindsay, flat and serious. They're abso-fucking-lutely _appalled_ , and Fiona doesn’t blame them.

So she gives Lindsay’s hand a quick squeeze.

“…Do you trust me?” she asks.

“Don’t go all fuckin’ _Aladdin_ on me, man, I’m not--”

“Do you trust me?!” Fiona repeats. “I’m not gonna let you go, I’m not gonna let you fall-- Look, all these cops, they’re expecting us to come out the front door, otherwise they’d have spotlights on us already. If Gavin and Michael already hauled ass and art out of the employee exit, the cops aren’t gonna let that slide for _us_. Right?”

Lindsay glances down at the street.

Four stories is a helluva drop.

“Okay,” they concede, and they huff out a sigh, like it might unlock the concrete tension in their shoulders. Judging by the deep-set lines of a continuing frown, it doesn’t appear to work. “Okay, let’s do this. What the hell.”

“Cool,” mumbles Fiona, because she knows something Lindsay doesn’t.

Yeah, the both of them might be acquainted with the layout of the exhibit halls, and the structure of the museum itself - tall, conical, layered with glass like a wanky skyscraper - but Fiona knows something none of these Fake AH Crew members ever could.

She knows how to fall without hurting herself.

“Do you remember that part in my routine, my real performance, where I fall from the ceiling?” she asks. “And everyone else is on the floor, waiting for me?”

Lindsay nods.

“I learned how to do that from Liberty City fire escapes,” she explains, “If you fall right, you can hold onto the ladder and let it swing you to the floor. This building is stupid, but there’s a concealed structure about ten feet down on the third floor. It’s old shit. If I land on it, I can unclip the ladder and you can come down to me. Then we can swing down those construction struts, all the way down to the dirt. Yeah?”

“Fuck it,” says Lindsay instantly, with zero protest, “why not. Let’s get this done quick so I don’t spew everywhere.”

“Don’t throw up on me!” Fiona warns them. “I made it so you don’t even have to jump down to _me_ , you just have to jump onto a fucking ladder, it’s like, a meter away--”

“Don’t get _metric_ with me right now, I swear to god.”

Fiona’s done some dumb things to win an argument, but honestly?

Jumping from a balcony onto a foot-wide piece of metal railing is _way_ up there.

She can hear Lindsay yelp, even as she lands like a cat, clinging to the grille of the thin walkway and shakily getting to her feet. It’s easy to unclip the ladder above her, because they’re weird old ones with only clasps and joints holding them against the wall. It creaks when she lets it swing open. (She hopes Lindsay doesn’t hear it.)

“Get down here, loser!” she calls up. It’s mostly because the cops are coming, but also because she wants this to be over for Lindsay as soon as possible.

Lindsay steps onto the balcony wall. They close their eyes - oh, god - and appear to say what might be a quick prayer, before flinging themself at the emergency ladder.

She braces herself for the impact, tensing against the recoil when Lindsay hits the metal. And while it sways - _Lindsay makes it._

 **_“FUCK!!”_ ** Lindsay says. (It’s a sensible assessment.)

And so Fiona helps them descend. “You’ll be happy to know,” she says, when Lindsay’s safe on the walkway, and bruising every inch of her forearms with vice-like stress, “that it’s like monkey bars all the way down from here. No more ladders.”

“No, that’s worse,” Lindsay says.

“It’s worse?”

“Yes, it’s worse.”

“Sorry, but you’re just gonna have to deal with it,” Fiona says. This is time-sensitive, and kind of an emergency. She doesn’t have time for sympathy. “Just follow me.”

She lowers herself off the edge of the walkway gingerly - Lindsay watches her through their fingers - and clings to the diagonal strut supporting the artificial flooring. Then she screws up her courage, and uses the momentum of her own suspended swinging to reach out to one of the supports further down.

“Why couldn’t this be a fucking ice skating museum,” curses Lindsay from above her.

“Because,” Fiona calls - she listens out and hears the telltale clang of Lindsay following her down into monkey bar territory. Thank _god_ \- “then you’d still suck asshole at skating lemons away from the feds, Lindsay from the Rink. Your--” _clang!_ “--your ankles wouldn’t take it!”

“My lemons were fine!” Lindsay huffs, “but I’m starting to thank Past Lindsay for not skipping arm day, not gonna lie!”

“Don’t make me laugh on floor two! I’ll fucking fall, you asshole--”

“God, we’re only on floor _two?!”_

Except floor two becomes floor one, soon enough, and with only six feet to the ground, Fiona drops safely onto the grass. Lindsay does so with slightly less grace, but they get a pass, because they didn’t throw up. Otherwise Fiona would probably make fun of them for the way they landed on their ass _forever_.

“C’mon,” Fiona murmurs, pulling them to their feet, “we gotta go, we gotta get outta here. Me and my sock gotta make it to the drop point, and you gotta make it back to your gang--”

“And we both have to make it past the cops,” Lindsay says gravely.

That’s about when Michael emerges from a fucking _hedge_.

“Pssst!” he hisses. “Lindsay! We had a fuckin’ _situation_. I got Gavin out with the stuff, he’s on his way to stash it, but our ride is fucked and the cops are closing in--”

_This is your final warning! Come out with your hands up!_

Lindsay glances at her. “You gotta go to the drop point, Fiona,” they say seriously. “I’ll see if Gavin can meet you halfway, but… You’re gonna have to run.”

“Right,” says Fiona, who had been planning on a leisurely stroll to Strawberry from here. This is a rude change of plans.

“We’ll take the heat off you,” they smile, and it instantly smoothes out some of the pressure from the situation at hand. “Get there safe, okay?”

“Okay,” Fiona whispers.

Without thinking, she darts over and presses their lips together, fleetingly and sweetly, and backs off immediately:

“Thanks,” she says. (Lindsay looks fucking _dazed_.) “Don’t, uh… Don’t fucking die. I’ll be really sad.”

“Noted,” Michael says dryly.

She leaves the Fakes as they want to be left - facing off too many cops, with too much arrogance, and an unfair lucky streak to carry them through it all. When she pushes her way through the hedgerows in the museum grounds, and out onto the street, Fiona checks that she’s not being followed. Whatever Lindsay and Michael are doing, it’s pulling all the cops into one place, and away from _her_.

She picks up the pace, and then she starts to run.

The road into Strawberry is littered with stray cop cars and people who look at her weirdly. She _knew_ this fucking all-black getup wouldn’t work, goddamnit, it’s fucking _stupid_. She pulls off the beanie and tosses it into the alleyway, sprinting like her life depends on it.

(Shit, it kinda does.)

Fiona is acutely aware that she is alone now, for the first time tonight after collecting the diamonds. Gavin is nowhere to be found, even as the roads get more run down and the fences get higher and cheaper. She’s way over halfway to her rendezvous point now, so it’s probably time to give up on Lindsay’s gang friend offering some moral fuckin’ support.

Although the sirens _are_ getting closer again. Which is… Worrying.

She vaults over a couple fences - and fumbles a quick “‘scuse me!” to someone smoking an enormous blunt in their backyard, despite the guy barely mustering up the energy to glance at her - and finds herself five, maybe six streets away from where she needs to be. Late, sure, but she’ll _be_ there.

Fiona’s hoping that this kinda determination can save her sorry skin tonight, when a police cruiser comes tearing around the corner, the bumper glaring bullets at her before the cops can even pull over and unholster their standard-issues.

Well, fuck.

“Time to go!” she says, and claws her way over a six-foot high fence panel, tumbling into the backyard beyond. Hopefully all these dogs she’s outrunning will go for the cops’ ankles instead, she thinks, as she immediately leaps and tumbles into the next yard. Fuck. _Fuck_.

She ignores the burn in her legs and crashes out into an open street again, filled with kids of varying ages drinking cans and having a loud dancing competition. Fiona’s eyes widen in recognition, because this is a sick fucking parallel, before her instincts take over:

“Move!” she yells, “move, you gotta go! Get out of here, there’s pigs everywhere tonight, they’re pissed and they’re after anything they can get--”

And to everyone’s credit, that warning is enough. The blue and red strobes in the backdrop probably don’t discredit her warning, either. The older teenagers scramble for their speakers and booze and equipment, and the younger ones pull each other in all directions - there must be thirty of the little bastards all scrambling for their homes. Fiona _tears_ through the emptying street. It’s fucking sad that all these fucking _children_ live in a place where shit like this is routine.

The next fence coming up has barbed wire around it, but there are so many gaps between the slats that Fiona thinks she might be able to topple one of the boards. Her hypothesis is quickly proven correct when two or three of the kids rush to lift up the base of one of the panels. One of them is clutching a too-bright cell phone, recording the whole escape. It’s eight feet across like a miniature garage door, and it swings on the upper support - several of them help each other through, and onto the other side. It bangs closed when they’ve all made it to the other side.

The cops are one block away, judging from the shrill volume of their dickhead cars.

The panel’s clattered back into place by the time Fiona skids to a halt in front of it, and as soon as she tries to lift, she realizes why it took three kids to heave the fucking thing out of its cradle. It’s _heavy as shit_.

She lifts with her knees, pulling up with both hands, and carefully steps her way onto the opposite side of the barrier. A cop rounds the corner, weapon at the ready, so _whoops_ , it’s _totally_ time to go--

And Fiona’s _just_ fucking dropped it when another kid comes careening around the corner.

There’s terror written all over his face. No wonder, given that he’s clearly running in horror from the angry white dude pointing his fucking gun all over the neighborhood. He lumbers heavily towards freedom, and - as if in slow motion - he dives for the quickly-closing gap in the open fence panel.

“Fuck!” she curses, and dives back to shoulder the blow.

Without Fiona taking the brunt of it, the panel would have come down on his leg, and he would have certainly had something snapped to explain to his mother - or the feds. Instead, he rolls out onto the deserted sidewalk of the opposite avenue, and Fiona _wheezes,_ winded, the impact on her spine forcing all the air out of her lungs with a dull, crushing _whack_. 

It’s sheer strength, at that point. The wood beside her head explodes, sawdust blasting out and dusting across her cheek - distantly she registers that the cop behind her just _fired at her_.

The boy stares, shocked and utterly, utterly _horrified_. He looks up at her with huge eyes; just a kid with a scraggly almost-beard and half-assed pre-dreads. He can’t be more than high-schooler age.

The sirens tear through the background like a knife through canvas. There’s another shot, but this time, nothing explodes around her.

Must have missed.

 _“Go,”_ she manages to get out, wincing, inhaling with sheer force of will and exhaling out of necessity. The panel needles its way into her palms, sweat spontaneously prickling in her hairline, and she shakes as she shoulders it.

The kid nods frantically, and rolls out of harm’s way.

Fiona watches him scramble down the street - blue and red and black is clouding her vision, and she's aching with panic already, it can’t take more than two seconds but the adrenaline is thundering through her body in the way that screeching tires grind against asphalt - and she’s already dropping the panel when a lanky _idiot_ tumbles through the gap. He lands, sprawled and unharmed, onto the sidewalk at her feet. It’s a good job he made it, because Fiona wouldn’t have been able to stop it for a second time.

There’s a crunch as the panel flips. It teeters flat again, with an impressive shower of dust.

“Bugger _me_ ,” says Gavin.

(He sounds vaguely awed.)

Fiona coughs out a long, loud series of swear words. “Gavin! You coulda been _crushed!_ Where the fuck did _you_ come from?!”

“Stashing the cache, wasn’t I?” he shrugs. Gavin’s got such weird, loose arm sockets - every casual gesture sprawls. “C’mon, I was planning on meeting up with the others, I’ll take you--”

“Jesus Christ,” she hacks, following his gangly footsteps, “Jesus _Christ_ \--”

Because there’s blood on the tip of her tongue and iron in every single one of her back teeth, electric and raw in the back of her throat. She just narrowly escaped death. She’s still not out of the woods - in her pocket, the diamond sock thumps with each heavy thud of her feet.

“He _fired_ at me,” she coughs.

“S’alright!” Gavin calls over his shoulder, “I got him back for you! No need to thank me--”

“Gavin!!!” she says. (She can’t think of a better way to say, _fuck, we’ve led the cops ten doors down from my drop point! I’m fucked! I’m fucked!_ )

He leads her down a familiar looking strip of garages, counting in whispers, until they reach the fifth door in and he hauls it up. It moves with far more grace than the fence panel did.

As soon they’re inside, he jumps to yank the cord back down, and they’re left in the light of a shitty, single Edison bulb.

“What is _this_ ,” Fiona pants.

Gavin gestures wearily to a shelf of bottled water. “We should be alright here for a sec,” he huffs. “Catch our breath and that… Merciful shitting _Christ_ , I’m knackered.”

Fiona pounces on it. It feels like she’s been running for _years._ She wrenches the cap off, emptying half in one go with obnoxious plasticky crackling, until she just _has_ to gasp for air--

“What are you _doing?!_ Are you stripping off?”

“Changing clothes, throwing them off our trail,” Gavin says, muffled through his own shirt. Fiona thanks every higher power she can think of that he appears to be wearing some kind of wetsuit underneath. “Don’t you have a drop point to get to? There’s a door on the back wall, it’s open. Cross one street over and you’ll be there, loads of black cars waiting over there--”

“Oh, Gavin, _thank you,_ ” she cries.

“Ahh, you’re welcome!” he says, sounding delighted, despite being stuck in his own button down.

It’s the last thing she hears before she slams the door shut behind her.

There’s a distinct lack of cops in the area, even as Fiona jogs around the corner, and she sees why soon enough. Gavin’s right - there _are_ a lot of black cars in the dead end. Three, actually, with tinted windows and shiny rims.

And there, waiting for her in the road, with three burly looking men in suits, is Kellyn Wells himself.

“Mister Wells,” she says, shellshocked, “I-- I wasn’t expecting _you_. I thought--”

“That you’d bring the police all the way to us?” he asks casually. “I have to say, Nova, you _really_ screwed this one up. It’s almost impressive.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she says.

“You’ll have to make it up to me,” he says. Fiona eyes all three of Wells’ men, and takes in the shape of their guns, concealed in their jackets. “Do you know how you’re going to have to do that?”

“I got your diamonds, Sir,” says Fiona, and feels more than a little pathetic when she holds her fuzzy sock up to the sky in offering. It swings like a valuable ballsack.

Wells doesn’t look particularly impressed.

In fact, the gentleman closest to him reveals his handgun, and points it right at Fiona’s forehead.

“You’ll have to make it up to me,” Wells repeats, and Fiona closes her eyes: _please don’t be anything gross. Please, please, please don’t be anything gross--_

While she’s still waiting for Wells’ verdict, she becomes abruptly aware of a dangerous clicking noise - this time, from somewhere behind her back.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you,” says Lindsay, “that a lack of a ‘yes’ is still a ‘no’?”

Oh, _god._ Fiona doesn’t know whether she wants to hold her breath or panic entirely. She looks over her shoulder, and sees the only person she’s trusted to fall with in god knows how long. Lindsay’s clad in Michael’s wolf jacket, and the aviators Fiona had ripped into Gavin for having on him are propped up over their hair.

They're wielding their own pistol, though.

“And who the fuck are _you?”_ Wells asks irritably.

“Oh, I know I’m not the most recognizable of us all,” Lindsay says cheerfully, “but I think your men know who lent me my jacket and shades. Maybe you should ask them if fucking with me is a good idea.”

Fiona knows that look - Wells doesn’t care. “Just take the fucking shot,” he says, sounding supremely bored with the whole thing, only he hasn’t bet on Lindsay raising their own pistol and shooting a bottle on the concrete. _Without looking_.

Everyone else freezes.

He signals for his men to ease up on the guns, and they do.

“Glad that worked,” Lindsay smiles. “I’d like to borrow your dancer, if that’s okay.”

Wells bristles: “I would do that _why?”_ he asks.

“Because I feel like you’re gonna be a dick to her,” says Lindsay, “and it’s actually my fault that Zizi’s little diamond heist went to shit. I like her skills. I like her sock. I want to borrow her.”

“Do you,” he sneers.

“Nope, not really!” they say. “I actually want her all for myself, but that’s not very fair of me to do without asking, now, is it?”

“So you thought you’d ask _me_ ,” says Wells. Fiona’s heart sinks. “My answer is ‘no’. She has a debt. She’s going to repay me, whether she likes it or not, and you can’t change my mind.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about asking _you_ ,” Lindsay says.

What?

“And actually,” they continue, “I really don’t care if it’s okay if I borrow her or not. I was trying to be polite, but now I can see that you don’t speak that kind of language. Here’s something you might understand, though--”

And they shoot the man who’d been pointing his gun at Fiona, somewhere above his right nipple.

He falls to the ground, and all hell breaks loose for the strangest few seconds - Fiona backs away from the body, right into Lindsay, who points their pistol over Fiona’s shoulder directly at Wells’ dog’s-asshole face. He’s gone from smug and annoyed to sour and _furious_ in an extremely short amount of time.

“Unless you wanna lose another man,” Lindsay warns, “you’re gonna let us go, now. Los Santos belongs to the Fakes. Smart guy like you should have known that.”

They've got an arm around Fiona’s collar like they're taking a hostage, except it feels like the exact _opposite_ of that when Wells backs down. She can feel herself relax into Lindsay’s half-hug when he says:

“I am allowing you to _borrow_ her.”

“Thank you,” says Lindsay. They don’t lower the pistol. (It seems wise.)

“And _you_ ,” he says, rounding on Fiona, “you’d better be back before we leave this morning. _With_ my rocks. Or god help me, I will hunt you down.”

“You really don’t know who the Fakes are, do you?” Lindsay asks curiously.

Kellyn Wells glares at them, which seems to be a pretty safe indication that the answer is in the affirmative. But he doesn’t say anything else, and neither he nor his men move a muscle, so Lindsay walks them backwards until they’re out of sight, and sneaks them back over to Gavin’s garage.

“That was amazing with the bottle,” Fiona finally says. “You didn’t even _look_.”

“I thought I was firing a warning shot, not gonna lie,” says Lindsay, more than a little sheepish, “that was _super_ lucky. I can’t believe I pulled that off.”

“Are you for real? Are you _serious?!_ Lindsay, I hate you!” Fiona tells them. “I hate that _so_ much, Lindsay!”

Lindsay holds open the rear door for her with the biggest shit-eating grin on their face ever, and Fiona doesn’t actually hate them after all, it turns out. She likes them. To a _truly_ disgusting degree. Lucky shooting and all.

When they enter the safety of the garage, Michael and Gavin are in there, securing the painting and Lindsay’s bag onto the back of a sleek looking motorbike. Gavin’s wetsuit isn’t a wetsuit at all, now that she has some spare seconds to look properly, but some kind of lightweight, durable jumpsuit.

Michael looks up at their arrival: “how’d it go?” he asks.

“My boss doesn’t know whose turf he’s on, so that was fun,” says Fiona.

“Yeah, what an idiot,” Lindsay adds, “out-of-towners, right? Pthhpbphlp. It’s just an _embarrassment_.” 

Fiona shoots them an astounded look: “what do you mean, _town?_ This is a _city_ ,” she says slowly, and it makes Lindsay grin like mad.

Finishing up his maintenance, Michael gets to his feet. “Whatever the plan is here,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Gavin’s bike is good to go, and yours is ready for you too. Last I heard, the cops were on their way into Vinewood in case we hit the private galleries again. So what’s our next step?”

She watches, as Lindsay shrugs off the leather jacket with the wolf design on the back, and suddenly pieces everything together as Michael throws it back over his shoulders. “Holy shit,” Fiona says, “you’re Mogar.”

She’s met with a crinkled expression of confusion. “Yeah?” Michael says. “Like, Fake names, sure? I thought we went through this.”

“We did, but it didn’t sink in at the time, I was busy,” she says, stumbling, “I knew I was dealing with Fakes but I only realized _now_ that you’re the big names! _Everyone’s_ heard of the Nursing Home Thugs job you pulled with Rimmy Tim, you’d have to be an idiot not toooguhghhUHHHH,” Fiona says ungracefully, choking on her own gasp, and waves a pointed finger in front of Gavin’s face. “You! You’re the fucking Golden Boy! I should’ve known! Fuck!”

“Yeah, it’s obvious,” says Gavin, and gestures down at his luminous Deadline outfit. The wetsuit shimmers with lit-up lines, like he stepped right out of ‘Tron’.

It’s bright pink. There’s nothing gold about it at _all_.

Fiona narrows her eyes at him: “are you tryna be a wiseass?” she asks.

“No,” he replies, “I’m actually a natural wiseass. No trying necessary.”

“Eat shit and die, old man.”

 _“Old man?!”_ Gavin squawks indignantly. “I’m thirty-three!”

“I mean, yeah, but you’re no fuckin’ spring chicken, Gav,” Michael tells him, softly, like he’s breaking bad news to him.

“I’m hardly a crusty old geezer! Michael, what do you meeeaan!”

Fiona recoils. _“Crusty?!_ Ew!”

“I don’t like the new girl,” Gavin decides sulkily.

“Oh yeah? Well, I _hate_ you.”

“Then I hate _you_ , too!” 

“Great,” says Michael, slapping his sides in defeat, “they’re gonna be best friends. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Fiona’s ready to protest further, so she turns to Lindsay for moral support, only to find that Lindsay is watching her every argument with the dopiest look on their face in the world. 

“Oh, my god,” Michael mutters. “Lindsay! Hello? I asked you what the plan was!”

They snap out of it, shaking their head like they're fighting off fruit flies in summer.

(It’s extremely endearing.)

“We can go back to mine,” Fiona says, trying not to let the dazedness catch on. “Or, like - my dorm. Everyone’s in rehearsal ‘til two in the morning on Saturdays, it’s supposed to stop them going out to clubs and shit--”

“What a crappy existence,” Lindsay notes.

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad. But it’s also to get them outta the way while I do my thing, Wells organizes it all,” she explains, “and then we leave at five AM, so in about three hours’ time, he’s gonna get super pissed off and delay the tour by a day. Good job I’m not gonna be a part of it.”

Gavin frowns. “Why not?”

“Because I’m giving the diamonds to you guys and running away,” she explains. “And Wells, he’ll send other dancers after me to bring me back. Won’t work, though.”

There’s no trace of any dazed zoning out now - Lindsay _balks_. “What the fuck?” they say, “Fiona, why would you _do_ that?”

“Because I’m sick of this,” she explains simply. “I’m sick of this whole thing. Giving the Fakes the diamonds, that’ll really piss him off. And if I come back empty handed - if I come back at all, let’s face it - there’ll be hell to pay. No matter what he promises he won’t do. So…”

She swallows.

“I’m just gonna go away, y’know? Maybe I’ll make it outta this place. Or maybe I’ll just hunker down in Los Santos, it seems like a place where you could disappear without too much of a problem. I can look after myself easy. It’ll be fine.”

“Fiona, no,” Lindsay murmurs.

“Fiona, _yes_ ,” she retorts, “Fifi would be out on the streets at _best_ anyways, I might as well commit to the lifestyle before he throws me out. It’s like quitting your job when you know you’re gonna get fired. Uhh… Probably.”

Well, none of them look convinced by that at all.

“Why don’t you just stay with the Fake AH Crew?” Michael asks, too easily for Fiona to wrap her head around. “We’ve got fuckloads of locations across San Andreas, you could go wherever you wanted. Lindsay trusts you, we’d put you up.”

“Aw, no, I couldn’t do that--!”

“Fiona,” Gavin says gently. “At least lie low for _one_ night.”

“You’ve had a busy one so far,” Lindsay adds.

Well, fuck. It doesn’t seem wise to argue with potential rivals - even ones who’ve allied themselves with you, for whatever reason - and to make matters worse, they’re all being so fucking _nice_ about it. “Okay, I-- okay. But I’m gonna need to call some people,” she says, “I-- I don’t want any trouble for my mom.”

Lindsay hands the Golden Boy back his stupid fucking shades. “Gavin will take care of it. Don’t sweat it,” they say, and Gavin nods, and Fiona doesn’t dare ask them _how_. It seems impossible, but in the completely inconceivable way in which everything is _definitely_ possible with these people.

With a flourish made of elbows and misplaced balance, Gavin pokes himself in the eye with the arm of his own aviators. Michael doesn’t even dignify it with a comment - all he spares is a roll of his eyes, before he throws a leg over the seat of the bike, and Lindsay flicks the trigger to open the garage door.

“See you later,” he says to them, “and go easy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Lindsay grins.

“Fine, fuck off and die, then,” shrugs Michael, and as soon as Gavin has secured himself within the remaining seat space, he revs loudly and screeches down the street.

Fiona watches them go. Jerkily roaring into the fray.

“Your friends are crazy, Lindsay,” she says.

“Right?” says Lindsay, with a jingle of their own set of keys. “We could have raced each other back to the penthouse, they wasted a prime opportunity.”

The bike is scraped on both sides from at least two separate falls, the purple paint gored into speckles like chipped nail polish. It had probably been a fairly nice bike before that - not too burly, but not completely powerless either. She wonders how bad Lindsay had wiped out. 

“So this is the famous motorbike,” she grins. “Pretty sweet, Lindsay, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” they smile. “Protection’s on the shelf behind you. Let's get outta here.”

Fiona picks a helmet from the selection, which is a jarring shade of taxi cab-yellow, while Lindsay preps the bike.

“I've never been on a spontaneous motorbike ride before.”

“Really? Do you know how to ride one of these?” Lindsay asks.

Fiona’s already squishing her face into what’s turned out to be a _very_ tight fit. “It’s like ice skating,” she says thickly, “you lean into it.”

There’s something dark and very pretty in Lindsay’s eyes when she catches them again, something that glitters with a little more sparkle than the lights outside of the garage units can offer her. They close the garage door behind them, roaring into the night, and Fiona puts her arms around Lindsay’s middle to steady herself, and Lindsay doesn’t need to give her permission to do it.

They leave Strawberry for the city. Los Santos seems to be made of blurry, hazy colors, and yet is startlingly defined. Like a deep fried JPEG. There’s a degree of unreality to the evening which hadn’t been entirely expected, if she’s honest about it.

When they reach intersections, Fiona taps either Lindsay's left side or right side to indicate a turn. No words are necessary - they glide through the streets like a hot knife through butter, warm against each other’s bodies, comfortable in their seats with the wind whistling across their sides.

They stop around the back of the block; Lindsay keeps their revving to themself as they pull into the side.

“Is your bike gonna be okay there?”

“Sure,” Lindsay says, “quick in and out, we’ll be fine.”

They slap the tank affectionately. It’s got a green duckie decal on it.

“Okay,” says Fiona, “here’s what we do. I’m on floor two, I gotta climb up to get in. But you can get upstairs just fine yourself - have you ever jumped the barriers on the subway?”

 _“Have_ I!” crows Lindsay.

“Just do that to the lobby doors and make your way up to 217. I’ll let you in, there shouldn’t be anyone else around.”

Going back to her room is both easier and more stressful than it’s ever been before. Fiona scales the outside of the building and slips in through the window, like she always does after a job, to find exactly what she expected - no-one. The TV is still going on Sike’s news station, but it’s turned down low.

Time to get to work. Fiona strips off her stupid thieving turtleneck, glad to be rid of it, and opens her allocated drawer to pull out all the clothes she wants to keep. When the knock at the door comes, she throws it open.

“Oh, god, what do I leave-- what do I _take_?!” she asks. “I got like, ten minutes to get all my shit together, I’m freaking out, man.”

“Hm. Important documents, check,” Lindsay lists, “sentimental stuff, for sure - basically anything you can’t replace. Don’t worry about dance equipment or hair dryers or makeup, because we can replace it. Most of all - don’t worry about cash. Don’t worry about food. We don’t worry about that kind of stuff around here, not _ever_. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Fiona mumbles.

She’s never had someone to depend on before, or somewhere to turn to when shit got rough. The only reason she’d stuck around with the company for so long was because Fiona had seen first-hand what happened if someone decided to leave and go it alone - or worse, hide with family and friends - and Wells didn’t let that shit fly. It never ended nicely. In the past, she’s always been keen on keeping her blood _inside_ her body.

This isn’t his territory, though.

And she doesn’t work for him anymore.

“Should I leave a note?” she wonders. She throws her passport and ‘important stuff’ folder into the ragged duffel bag she owns. “Maybe I should leave a note. ‘I QUIT, ASSHOLE’,” she suggests, “how does that sound? No, he’d probably just use it against me. That’s what assholes do. What about ‘FUCK YOU, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY’?”

Lindsay doesn’t answer.

She’s shoveling her favorite hoodie into the side pocket when she finally realizes. “What?” Fiona demands, before remembering that she’s verbally losing her mind in only a sports bra and spray on jeans right now.

And Lindsay is wide-eyed, pink in the face, and absolutely gorgeous.

“Oh, I-- I didn’t mean to make you uncomf--”

“I was just gonna ask if I should turn away,” Lindsay says quietly.

Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. Fiona thinks about it, and splits into a time-wasting grin. “You don’t have to look away,” she teases, doing a little twist with her torso to show off, and the deeper smile-and-blush combo that follows is more rewarding than all the diamonds in San Andreas.

“Is _staring_ too much?” Lindsay asks.

“Nah. I like you staring,” she says, “I want you to do it more, actually.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open when we make out, then,” replies Lindsay, leaning in closer with a horrifying, unwavering stare, and Fiona collapses into a _fhshshs_ ing series of snorts.

“You’re a _freak_. You creepy _freak_ ,” she laughs, and kisses them, open eyes and all, until eventually they both close them, and get lost in what is frankly a mindblowing and sober and seriously romantic moment or two.

This means that Lindsay has their hands under the band of Fiona’s sports bra, and Fiona has a forgotten shirt draped loosely over Lindsay’s shoulder, when Sike opens the door on them.

“Fuck _off_ ,” says Fiona. She doesn’t mean it in a ‘get the fuck out’ way - it comes out as more of a ‘no _way_ is this happening to me right now’.

Sike doesn’t say anything, as usual. But they do shrug in return, as if to say, guess this is happening, what are you gonna do about it?, and sits in front of the TV again.

Lindsay and Fiona share a look.

Then Fiona jumps into action. It’s a horrifying reminder that if they get caught by Wells, there’s gonna be no way out for either of them. “Sike-- don’t tell him I was here,” she says desperately, pulling on her socks. “Not that you say much anyway, but-- I’m sure you know that something went down, I’m sure he’s gotta be pissed as hell, and I don’t want him to take it out on you. Just keep your fuckin’ head down, he’s got guys all over. I’ll be gone and you won’t have to worry about seeing me again.”

“Nah, I’ll worry every day,” Sike says.

Fiona freezes. One shoe half on, her bra strap skewed down the slope of her shoulder, her hair flopping into her eyes.

She doesn’t think she’s ever heard Sike make more than a huffing noise in six whole months of knowing them.

“Know what I might do?” Sike continues, in a low voice, one that’s rich in tone and threat, “I might tell him that I saw you passing through, just to piss him off. And that you’re going back to Liberty City, just to _throw_ him off. Fuck Wells - he’s got all of us here on protection, or blackmail, or worse. Whatever _you_ had was hardcore, I just know - no-one else can scale buildings like that. I hope you end up where you want to be, Fiona.”

“Sike,” she says weakly. (She can’t think of anything else to say.)

Lindsay pushes off the mattress, and rubs the small of Fiona’s back as they pass. “C’mon,” they say, in a way that’s nicer than saying _get dressed, we gotta go_. “You still got that rock sock?”

“Linds, we can’t give those to Sike, that’ll make them a target,” she says, scandalized.

“Oh, yeah,” says Lindsay. “Huh, I didn’t think of that. Guess that was just a value in my brain, know what I mean?”

“You’re _crazy_.”

“Yep,” they grin, and there they are - the lunatic who can’t ice skate that Fiona caught feelings for on Tuesday night.

God, this is crazy as _fuck_.

Lindsay grabs their blazer and fishes around in the inner pocket. “Well, these were withdrawn from an ATM last week, so they won’t be traceable,” they grin, and they toss a money clip towards Sike. “Go wild, man, there’s like, a couple G there. I… I think. Might be more, I don’t know exactly… It’s for emergencies. This seems like one.”

Sike picks up the cash. The clip alone is probably worth a fair amount.

 _“Damn,”_ they say. “I feel like I just got hate crime compensation. Motherfucker keeps calling me a ‘lady’, y’know that?”

Fiona wants to laugh so _very_ badly.

She doesn’t, though. She doesn’t say goodbye to Sike. She doesn’t hover in the room when Lindsay tells her it’s time to go, like she’ll miss this prison of a dorm for a single second, like she’ll miss any of the dorms that came before which looked the same. She doesn’t wait to see what’s going to go down when the others figure out she’s gone, and she doesn’t hesitate.

Fiona’s not supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be something better, and something _free_.

On the ride back to the penthouse, she gives herself a moment to hold on tighter to Lindsay’s waist, and take solace in the privacy of her motorcycle helmet. The screen of glass is private and the noise is enveloping, like a blanket of white static and wind. The cluttered world of Los Santos breezes past. They cut through it like a bullwhip. Fiona keeps catching the taste of Lindsay on her bottom lip; it makes her shiver every time she does.

* * *

The penthouse is enormous.

Well, it’s less of a penthouse, and more like a duplex sitting on top of a skyscraper. When Lindsay leads her from the massive, spotless garage, up through the elevator, and onto the second-from-top floor, there are rooms with decorations that seem to be specific to people. Like they bought out their own block specifically to be neighbors. Fiona wouldn’t be surprised if the whole building’s owned by the Fakes.

“We’ll get this sorted out,” says Lindsay, leading her towards what Fiona assumes is gonna be a living area of some kind. “I’ll make sure of it. I know what they’re all like, they’re probably freaking out and getting excited about Wells. I bet they’re not even thinking about our options. I bet they don’t even have a _plan_.”

“--sounds like a plan to me,” says Gavin, when Fiona and Lindsay scoot through the doors.

A man with some impressive facial hair and a fuckload of tattoos instantly stares at them, as though he both couldn’t care less and cares _very_ much about their arrival. There’s a redhead in a Hawaiian shirt; a long-limbed, ombre-clad man who is radiating anxiety; another Fake in the corner, dressed in purple and orange and yellow, taking in the discussion passively.

“This is Geoff and Jack, and AxialMatt, and Rimmy Tim,” Lindsay says, breaking up the abrupt silencing of the room, “and you already know Michael and Gavin. Guys, this is Fiona, say hi.”

“Hi,” waves Rimmy Tim.

“We’ve already given them the rundown,” Michael says, “we were gonna give her the spare, but it’s probably safer to stash Lil Zizi in a safehouse until the heat’s off us. If Wells comes to the penthouse, which he _might_ be stupid enough to do, then we don’t want any cops or private morons demanding your presence.”

“It’ll be like a holiday,” says Gavin, and carelessly throws himself into the seat beside Rimmy Tim. 

“I fucking _hate_ you, you’re gonna squish my hat--”

“That was the original plan, anyway,” Jack adds, totally ignoring the breakout of bickering, “Matt can totally source you a room in case you wanna make this long term, but until then… We kinda assumed you would wanna stay with Lindsay.”

Fiona’s head is pounding, with the sudden withdrawal of adrenaline and the sheer choice laid out for her. She doesn’t even get a chance to decide, or begin to say ‘thank you’, because Matt is already interjecting:

“Wait, Michael, did you say _Zizi?_ You didn’t say that before!” he protests. Michael makes an ‘I dunno’ expression, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows, so Matt rounds on Fiona herself instead: “you were _Zizi!_ Damn, you were _big!_ You did some serious shit in Liberty City!”

“Yep,” she says hoarsely, “‘til I got caught by the wrong guy. Now I’m here.”

 _“Damn,”_ he says again, “that’s rough. No wonder you dropped off the radar.”

“It’s okay,” Michael says, catching Geoff’s eye - Geoff hasn’t uttered a word, yet - “we can get you back on the radar, if you want. It’ll be fun. Right?”

Fiona wants to cry.

She’s got Lindsay’s hand in the small of her back, warm and comforting, and she’s _pissed the fuck off_ because all these strangers are throwing her into the deep end of solidarity, with a snorkel and pool floaties to spare. It’s _insane_. But more than anything else, even if it’s too good to be true - _it’s already better than where she came from._

(They said they might source her a room of her own. God.)

“I’ll stay,” she decides, then and there, “I’ll stay if you’ll have me, I’d like that. I can do shit, I promise - I got skills,” she tells Jack. “For days, all kinds of stuff.”

“Yeah, we know,” Jack says, crossing her legs and relaxing into the couch cushions. She jabs a finger at Rimmy Tim: “Jeremy’s got a whole dossier on you. They're like a messed up little encyclopedia of crime.”

Rimmy Tim waves again, more sheepishly compared to their casual cool-aura from before. “Hi,” they say. “Listen, I-- I liked that one job you did in the midwest. With the sapphire in the casino. That was _cool_.”

Oh. The recognition of her work makes Fiona’s stomach jump. How unexpected.

There’s a lull in the Crew’s dialogue, explained only by Geoff’s continued, thoughtful silence being broken - the man sighs, stretches out his legs to massage his knees, and eventually, _eventually_ , he says:

“Are we gonna have a shootout over you?”

“Maybe,” Fiona admits, to a gang boss like no other she’s ever met before. “I hope not. I promise I’m worth it, though.”

His eyebrows furrow, in something not quite a frown, and not quite a scowl.

“She _is_ worth it, Geoff,” says Lindsay. “I’ve never been rescued from the fourth floor on _foot_ before, y’know? It was awesome. I peed a little bit.”

And Geoff slouches.

“Yeah, that _is_ fucking cool,” he concedes, almost disappointed, before flapping a hand at Michael. “Plus your old boss sounds like an asshole. We don’t like that kinda shit around here. What’s our plan?”

Simple. It really is just like that with the Fakes.

“I’ll send him a message,” Michael says lazily. “Or at least I’ll get Steffie or Ashley to do it… If he sends any dancers, we’ll see if we can break their contracts. And if Wells drags his sorry ass over the way, we’ll see if we can break _him_. Simple.”

“But you make it sound so _easy!”_ Fiona bursts out. “Aren’t you worried about him sending people after you? Or blocking access to stuff? Or threatening people?”

“Nope,” says Jack.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Gavin says, scrambling into a halfway-upright position to fish a cell phone out of his pocket. (Jeremy bats at the man’s legs irritably.) “I asked a contact out East if she’d send a girl out right away to see your dear old mum… Thought speed was of the essence. Although don’t worry,” he adds hastily, “I only got her address ‘cos I’ve still got access to Liberty City voting records, it’s not public. You can give her a shout anytime.”

He tosses the cell phone over. Fiona catches it in cupped hands.

“You can keep that one, I’ve got loads.”

She opens the settings, and idly begins to set up a passcode. 

“Guess we should destroy your old one,” Matt adds, which is a valid point, and before she knows it, the Fakes are tied up in another in depth discussion of what they’re gonna do going forward. She wonders if Lindsay always stands in complete contentedness like this, merely watching events transpire until they can seize an opportunity to make them exciting.

A large thud announces that Gavin has been tossed to the floor from the couch, and that Jeremy is approaching with a questioning look in their eye.

They hesitate, before saying:

“Drugs?”

Fiona frowns. “…What?”

“Drugs,” says Rimmy Tim, “your old boss, is that what he got you on?”

“No!” Fiona says. “Who the hell is breaking into specific penthouse apartments for a hit? No, he caught me thieving. I was two seconds from owning an eighteen karat cock ring before he flicked on the sitting room light, it was _total_ bullshit--”

“A _what_?!” Jeremy cackles. “A golden cock ring?! That’s _incredible--_ ”

From the opposite end of the room, Geoff makes a noise like a gobbling turkey. “Awesome! That’s what I call Gavin when he’s being a prick!”

“Yeah. Wells is a gross little man,” she grins, “I don’t even know how you’d clean between the diamonds on that thing. I feel like it’d be… scratchy.”

She wants to dive further into how truly disgusting and narcissistic the idea of a golden, jewel encrusted cock ring is, but before she can, there's synchronized pinging all over the room. Including in Fiona's hands - it's a notification noise. 

“What the fuck is that?” 

“Check it out,” says Jack. “Steffie set up news alerts for us, it's so cool. You made the papers, newbie!” 

She holds out her cell phone, and onscreen, there’s a headline. _**‘New Fake AH Crew Recruit Spares Bystander’**_. It’s complete with a whole article about the police chase, a video of the four of them fleeing the scene, and best of all - a snap of Fiona heaving the fence panel up across her back.

“There were kids recording,” she remembers. “For when the cops showed up, they started recording. I guess one of them papped me.”

Gavin peers over Jack's shoulder. “Excellent framing,” he comments. 

Even though Jack takes back her cell, Lindsay’s still staring at the photograph. They have it open in their own browser. 

“You look like Superman,” they say.

“Super _nova_ ,” Fiona corrects, feeling very pleased with herself.

Michael stares into the distance, with the airs and graces of a human being who’s put up with a lot of nonsense. “That’s your _last_ name,” he points out flatly, “it doesn’t work the same way at all. The guy wasn’t called Kal El _Man_.”

Fiona considers it for a second, before settling on replying with: “Kal El this _chode_ , Mister Jones.”

This would usually start a fight, actually, but the fight doesn’t come. Michael choke-cackles, nearly silent in his sudden laughter. _“Kal El this chode!”_ he coughs to himself, eyes crinkling, and that’s when she _knows_. That’s when Fiona knows that something about whatever life she’s fallen into here has potential. It’s got dirty prestige and danger and hilarious love at its heart.

And she’s very, _very_ tired of being by herself.

“Guess I'm in the spotlight again, then,” she grins. She's already thinking about outfitting herself properly - that cab yellow helmet was a _look._ “I need a gimmick, man, this is intense…”

“Oh, we could take suggestions!” Lindsay says excitedly, “find you what you’re most comfortable with, fit you for it… You could have a theme, or you could go all out.”

Michael squints. “I mean, they're not wrong. You’ve got something going on, I bet you could pick up a whole bunch of stuff, no problem--”

“What about fingerless gloves?” says Jeremy, slinking back to their corner.

“We could train you in two pistols at once,” Jack adds, “dual wielding is fun.”

“I think a baseball bat,” says Gavin.

“With confetti,” adds Matt Bragg.

“And bubblegum. Or-- let’s get you a grappling hook!”

“ _No_ , Jeremy, we’ve been through this!” Jack cackles, “oh my god…”

And Fiona curls against Lindsay’s shoulder, motionless and solid against the melting waxwork of a conversation they’re surrounded by. It’s so strange and so safe to be in a penthouse common area with people who wouldn’t even think about throwing her under the bus - they’ve all made that explicitly clear - and she’s dizzy just imagining what the future might bring. She's gonna give Kingpin Ramsey her gross little diamond sock and leave the stage forever. She's gonna _call her mom._ Maybe she'll save up to buy an ice rink with her first cut. 

“I bet I can get Ashley to find you custom shoes with knives in them,” Lindsay murmurs in her ear.

And Fiona bets that she could run diamonds for the rest of her sorry life wearing them. So long as she gets to do it for the Fakes, of course - in Los Santos, staying still but always moving, like she’s running on the spot.

The Crew bicker about gimmicks, and Lindsay’s steady, their feet firmly on the ground against Fiona’s leaning weight.

Yeah, she thinks she’s gonna like this.

**Author's Note:**

> My writing blog can be found [here.](https://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/) Come say hi! And thank you for reading! ♥


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